Knotted
by green and yellow
Summary: Finnick Odair was never made for Annie Cresta. He was designed to be a sexual and political pawn in the Capitol, while she was just a mad, mad girl. But somehow, like a fishing net, these two are knotted at heart.
1. like river to raindrop, i lost a friend

_***Lyric credit to chapter titles goes to Coldplay's "Us Against the World".**_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1:<strong> _63__rd__ Annual Hunger Games_

Fletcher's fingers work deftly with the netting, stitching and knotting it into place. There is a thin sheen of perspiration on his upper lip, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead in the hot afternoon sun. Gulls cry overhead, searching for their prey in the ocean – in the distance, the shipping barge blares its horn. Still, Fletcher does not flinch; his eyes don't stray from the rope in his steady hands.

Twelve-year-old Finnick mimics his brother's actions, his brow furrowed at the tangled mess that is his own net. In quiet frustration, he holds the heavily-knotted rope in the air to inspect the damage. Fletcher's netting is tight; the knots are uniform and clean. The only prey that would escape is the minnows. Finnick's net, on the other hand, won't be useful in catching a shark.

"Finnick," his father says, his deep voice causing both brothers to raise their heads, "it's not about imitation. It's about understanding the function of a net and how it's made to entrap its prey. It's about many hours of practice."

Finnick sighs, squinting his eyes in the sun as he stares up at his father. "When Fletcher was twelve, he could make a net."

"Fletcher didn't spend nearly as many hours as you cavorting around with his school friends," his father points out.

Finnick knew it would come back to this. It always does. He never makes friends with fishermen's sons at school, the hardworking lot who'd steer him in the right direction. Instead, he prefers the company of the businessmen's sons, the politicians' boys – they're the ones from a world that fascinates and terrifies him, the ones who can regale him with stories of the Capitol, a place he's never been but intends on visiting. The sons of more privileged families have time for frivolities. One of them, Taye, brought back an ancient game from his most recent trip to the Capitol. It involves a ball which can only be kicked, never handled. The object of the game is to manoeuvre the ball with one's feet into a net, carefully guarded by the other team. Taye says the game existed before the Dark Days. Before even the creation of Panem.

Finnick excels at the game. When it comes to choosing teams, he's always picked first for his natural athletic abilities.

When it comes to something as dull as netting – well, it's something he'd rather not bother with. And he wouldn't bother at all if it weren't for his father's insistence.

The eyes of Leander Odair are a shimmering sea green, and in his father's eyes, Finnick finds his own. With his tanned skin, his narrow nose and his bronzed, wavy hair, Finnick is in every way his father's son. Leander's broad shoulders have the strength for the weight of the world. Under different circumstances, he could have been so much more than a fishmonger. But District 4 is what it is, and so fishing is what the Odairs will do.

Fletcher, whose muted grey eyes are a perfect match to their mother's, raises his eyebrows up and down, just once. Leander hands his youngest son another coil of rope.

"Again, Finnick. Try again."

Finnick can see his schoolyard friends playing another game of Kick-The-Ball a few hundred yards up the shoreline.

Wiping the sweat from his brow with a sigh, he begins from scratch.

* * *

><p>Oddly enough, school is where Finnick feels most free. Away from the demands of his father, the superiority of his brother and the apologetic eyes of his mother, Finnick is free to dream he is someone else. Someone who can be anyone he wants to be.<p>

His agility and strength make him the envy of his classmates, but his easygoing nature and willingness to socialize with the highest and the lowest makes him the most sought-after. Amongst his peers, he is king. And he likes it that way.

"My dad's taking me to the Capitol next week," Taye says to Finnick and his friends as they goof around in the schoolyard following the final bell. "Should I try to bring back some chocolate again?"

"Yeah," Finnick says, his eyes widening with excitement. Chocolate is a delicacy from the Capitol rarely exported to the districts. It's so different from the saltwater taffy Finnick and his family feast on for dessert. Creamy and rich, the food of socialites. He's only tried it once, but Finnick's mouth waters just thinking of the chocolate on his taste buds.

"How come you're going to the Capitol again?" asks Keane, throwing the ball at the brick wall of the school building and catching it when it bounces back. "That's three times this year!"

"Dad's in talks with President Snow's advisors," Taye replies with importance. He grins. "If all goes well, District 4'll be expanding its lumber production."

Finnick frowns. "Lumber? Doesn't that belong to District 7?" He remembers learning about it in class. Each district specializes in its own production. District 4 is fishing. It's what they exchange to the Capitol and the other districts for money and other valuable goods – such as District 7's lumber.

"Yeah," Taye says, "but what's stopping us? We have the resources – the trees. If we produce our own lumber, that's one less thing we have to import."

"If we had more industries running in District 4, we'd be rich. Richer than even District 1," chimes in Odin, smacking the ball out of Keane's arms.

"Right," Taye agrees. "That's the idea. The more we expand, the less we need. The more we have to _trade_, the more we get in exchange."

_And the more options I have for myself_, Finnick thinks to himself with a surge of hope.

"While I'm there, I'll learn another game, too," Taye says, snapping Finnick from his reverie. "But for now, it's Kick-The-Ball. I choose first. Odair, my team."

Puffing his chest, Finnick starts to join his friend in the ranks. He may be destined for a lifetime in the fisheries, but at least he'll have the knowledge that he can compete with the best of them if given the chance.

The rest of his friends are siphoned into teams, and the game begins. Finnick feels the rush of adrenaline as he races down the court with the ball between his feet, using complicated fake-outs to trick the opposing team. Out here, he is invincible. Out here, he shines. And out here is where he feels that he can really be someone.

In the middle of his game, heart thumping, Finnick raises his head and pushes the hair off his sweaty forehead. Panting, he catches the dull grey eyes of his brother as he walks past the schoolyard fence with two boys from the wharf. All fishermen's sons. With netting spilling out of the packs on their shoulders, there's only one place they could be going.

Fletcher's eyebrows are a thick line as his eyes meet those of his younger brother. With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he passes the group of young boys and doesn't look back.

But Finnick watches him as he leaves, heaving breaths and wishing all at once that he could be so much more and so much less like him.

* * *

><p>Weeks later, Finnick sits on the beach outside his family home, netting sprawled across his outstretched legs. He <em>will <em>learn. His fingers fumble time and time again, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to focus. The sun beats down, its rays burning the skin on his dark shoulders, but Finnick doesn't care. He's just had his fifteen-minute break of swimming in the ocean, and now it's time to focus.

Leander and Fletcher sit on the stoop outside the back door, gutting the fish from the day. Finnick is pleased that his catch today exceeds that of his brother's. He's becoming more comfortable with the trident, more confident. And he can feel Fletcher's resentment boring into his back.

But if a fisherman is what he must be, then a fisherman is what he will be best at. Taye's father had an unsuccessful visit to the Capitol – at least, Finnick guesses that's what happened. His friend has been subdued ever since, refusing to speak of it. And Finnick has noticed the occasional sign in the market pronouncing all trees in District 4 as sacred, not to be chopped. He's seen the Peacekeepers paying more attention to the rural parts of the district, keeping close eye on the woods.

Every district has one specialty. That's the way Panem was designed. Finnick knows he must get used to the idea of fishing.

"That's it, then," Leander says, wiping his hands on his shorts and standing tall. Finnick looks over his shoulder. "Finn, I'll be out again before supper to check on your progress."

He goes inside. Finnick returns to his net with a sigh.

Footsteps approach him in the sand. He hears Fletcher's voice over his shoulder. "Look at all the gaps. That's worthless."

Finnick has the urge to pounce on his older brother, but instead he hardens his gaze and huffs a breath.

"What's the use of being good with a spear when you can't trap your prey to begin with?"

Fletcher is just jealous of Finnick's proficiency with the trident.

He asks another rhetorical question. "What good's being popular in the schoolyard when you're destined to starve?"

He, too, retreats inside the house. Finnick is left alone, with nothing but the low tide and the glaring sun for company.

He swallows his anger. He swallows his fear. And he returns to the net in his lap, for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, until he can't bear the silence anymore and hurls the rope into the sand with a groan.

"It's not that hard," says a small voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a small figure approaching.

Embarrassed, he replies gruffly, "I know."

"You're over-thinking it." She sits down next to him in the sand, reaching for the abandoned net. "I can show you, if you want."

"It's fine, Annie," he grumbles, staring off into the sea. His pride won't allow him to be instructed by a ten-year-old girl. What would she know about it, anyway?

"You're three years younger than Fletcher," she points out. "And you're already better with a trident. You can't expect to be better at everything."

He resents this lecture from her. Annie Cresta lives with her mother next door to the Odairs, and Finnick swears she must be spying on him. Sometimes, the things she knows about his family make him suspicious.

Not that she could do any harm. She's just a little thing at ten years old. Still, it annoys him.

"Not better," he says, holding his knees to his chest, "just equal."

Annie sorts out the mass of knots and coils in the rope and continues on. "You'd never settle for equal. You always have to be the best."

"And you always have to be annoying," is his weak retort.

If his words hurt her, she shows no sign of it. "Just try it," she says, thrusting the rope into his hands. "Over, then under. Loop it and pull."

Thinking she'll leave him faster, Finnick does what she says. With her patient, gentle guidance, he realizes after ten minutes that he's made decent progress on the net.

As the sun goes down, Annie's voice lowers to a whisper. "Are you scared, Finn? Is that what this is about?"

His hands freeze in place. He raises his head to meet her gaze. Her eyes are round and wide, innocent, but probing.

With a small shrug, he asks, "Scared of what?"

"The Reaping," she replies. "Next week, it's… your name will be in there."

It's true, he thinks. Now that he's twelve, his name will be entered in the pool just one time. Fletcher, being fifteen, will have his name entered four times.

"I'm not scared," he says without faltering. And he isn't. The chances of being chosen are so slim, even for Fletcher.

"I'm scared," Annie admits.

"You're only ten. Your name won't be thrown in for another two years."

She shakes her head. "I'm scared for _you_."

Finnick can only hold her gaze for so long before he has to check his surroundings. He heard once, from Taye, that the Capitol's spies are everywhere. One's personal reservations about the Reaping or the Hunger Games aren't to be discussed in public. In public, being chosen as tribute is a great honour. In public, the Games are nothing more than a sport. The most exciting sport Panem has ever seen.

Annie's father is a spy. That's what they say. Abandoned his family to work for the Capitol.

"I'm not scared," Finnick repeats.

Not on the outside, anyway.

* * *

><p>"It's an honour to be chosen," Leander tells his sons on the morning of the Reaping. "Remember that."<p>

Rumour from the schoolyard – delivered directly by previous District 4 victors – is that Hunger Games tributes are treated like kings and queens. They travel to the Capitol by luxury train, stay in top-of-the-line suites, are served the Capitol's most expensive food by the Capitol's most in-demand chefs, and have their own personal stylists and are pampered head to toe in the weeks leading up to the Games. What that would be like, Finnick wonders – to travel to the Capitol, be waited on hand-and-foot, and have Capitol citizens cheering him on to win the Games? An honour, indeed.

Finnick's mother, Dixie, dresses him and Fletcher in their nicest pair of pants – pressed and beige, leaving Finnick feeling stiff and ordinary – and button-down, collared navy shirts. It's customary that all eligible children look their best for the Reaping. It's televised, after all, to all other districts and the Capitol itself.

It must be the outfit that has Finnick feeling jittery.

"My boy," whispers Dixie to Finnick as she smoothes down his unruly hair. "My youngest. Are you nervous?"

"No," Finnick lies, inhaling to broaden his chest.

She gives him a small, sad smile. "It's okay to be." Placing both her hands on his shoulders, she gives him a tight squeeze and looks him straight in the eyes. "Your father would have you think there's no greater honour than to be chosen. But I like you right here with me, where I know you're safe."

Finnick stares blankly back.

"I'm proud of you, Finnick," she says, her voice cracking at his name. She wraps him in a hug, and for a moment, he allows his head to rest on her shoulder, wondering which future tributes in Panem are doing the same thing with their mothers – most likely, for the last time.

The Reaping is held in the District Courtyard, with the steps leading up to the Mayor's Hall acting as the platform. Marcocia Duterre is the escort of the District 4 tributes and also has the distinct pleasure of choosing which lucky boy and girl will die (or, every so often, survive) during the Games. When Finnick and Fletcher arrive, she is already awaiting the beginning of the ceremony on the platform, dressed in a flamboyant neon green cat suit with very thin, very tall stiletto heels. The material of her outfit clings to every curve on her body, and Finnick has to fight the disturbed expression that itches to appear. Though Marcocia has been the District 4 escort ever since Finnick can remember, she never seems to get any older. She's become a sex symbol in Panem, the escort all tributes hope to get. Finnick thinks she's been assigned to District 4 because the injections in her very plump lips make her look like a fish.

The District 4 mentors are also awaiting their tributes on the platform. The mentors are past victors of the Games, of which District 4 has a fairly large pool. This year, the mentors are Mags and Jarvis. Mags is one of the oldest surviving victors, using a cane to support herself on the platform, and Jarvis is in his thirties, having won the Games by brute strength. Finnick shudders as he recalls some of the recaps from Jarvis' Games.

The immensity of the crowd never fails to surprise Finnick. Everyone in District 4 gathers in the District Courtyard for the Reaping, spilling into the connecting streets. This is the first time that Finnick will get a prime spot in the crowd, and that is only because male and female contenders are divided into two columns and sectioned off by ropes at the front of the crowd. Overwhelmed by the population, Finnick tags as closely as he can to Fletcher, who eventually snarls at him to bugger off and find his own friends.

It takes time for the Courtyard to fill and settle down, so Finnick has time to hunt through the contenders and find two of his friends, Taye and Odin. They exchange greetings, but the mood of the Courtyard is solemn verging on excitement, so they keep to their own thoughts as they wait.

Finally, the ceremony begins. Marcocia introduces herself as well as the District 4 mentors and welcomes the crowd. There's no time to waste – all twelve Reaping Ceremonies are broadcast in Panem throughout the day, so it's best to get straight to the point.

Marcocia digs around in the glass bowl filled with hundreds of slips of parchment. She calls a name – one Finnick doesn't recognize. The female tribute walks to the stage as the crowd cheers, and Finnick surveys her carefully. She's older, maybe seventeen, and is very sturdy. She may just stand a chance if she knows anything about survival.

Next, the male tribute is chosen. Marcocia closes her eyes as she feels through the bowl, as if it makes a difference. She selects a piece of parchment and unfolds it slowly, holding it straight in front of her in grand ceremony. She looks out to the crowd with a gleaming smile.

"Taye Ellery."

The words take a few moments to register in Finnick's mind. The only names he had been listening for were his own and Fletcher's, and hearing something else entirely sends relief flooding through his veins.

The crowd begins to cheer. Finnick turns to the left, but Taye has already started moving.

The skinny, privileged son of a businessman - name entered only once into the glass ball - has already begun the slow walk towards his fate.

* * *

><p>On cool, quiet nights, the waves are calm, hitting the shore in smooth, rhythmic patterns. The itch to break free from a fisherman's dull existence always nags at Finnick's brain, but on nights like this, he appreciates his home on the beach in District 4. It's nights like this, when his brain is too loud, that he finds solace in the silence.<p>

Knowing that his family is inside watching the recap of the day's events at the Games, he steps into the water. He doesn't mean to wade in too deep. He just likes the feel of the sand between his toes as the tide brings it in… and then tears it away, leaving him with a tingling feeling that makes him wonder if it was ever really there in the first place.

"Full moon," says a voice from behind him. He's too blank to be startled by Annie's sudden appearance.

He sighs deeply.

Her feet make small ripples as she moves quietly through the water. Before he can count to three and take another deep breath, she's next to him, her pants rolled up to her knees.

"I'm sorry about Taye. I know he was your friend."

Finnick knew it was coming. He wets his lips, staring at his hands in an effort to collect himself – but it's no use. His mind conjures up images of Taye sprawled on his back just yards shy of the Cornucopia, heading towards the woods for shelter. A pool of blood seeping from his head stains the lush, green grass.

That's all it took. Sixty seconds into the 63rd Annual Hunger Games and Taye was dead.

"He wasn't strong enough," Finnick mutters, recalling the times he'd outrun, or outplayed, or outscored his schoolyard friend.

"Yeah," Annie agrees softly. "The tribute from District 2 was twice his size."

Finnick heaves another sigh. The odds were never in Taye's favour – not in his 4 in the Rankings nor in his feeble presentation in Caesar Flickerman's interviews.

"Better it happened now than later," Finnick says, "before everyone got their hopes up."

Annie has no reply, but stands beside him for a while longer, watching the moon.

The tide comes in, pooling around Finnick's calves and burying his feet. Then it recedes, and with it, the sand.

* * *

><p><strong>Hey, fan fiction. It's been a while. I can't lie - this is my first venture into Hunger Games fan fiction and I can't promise I'll get everything right. What I can promise is that I really enjoy what I'm writing and I'm really excited to share the rest. <strong>

**See you soon :)**


	2. slow it down

**Chapter 2**: _65__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

Fish are always for sale and trade in District 4. It is the one item the district is never without, and for that reason, it is rare that the citizens of the district ever go hungry.

Finnick works at the fish market after school most days. He unloads the hauls, his biceps growing thick with muscle over time. He skins and guts the fish, as his father taught him, and works at various booths to sell it, fresh and ready to be cooked. He's paid a bit of money for his efforts, but mostly he works to see the approval on his father's face.

The fishmongers greet him pleasantly every day, and he knows that they vie for his loyalty. Though there are a lot of young adults working in the fish market, there's something about the way the sun shines on Finnick's golden hair and reflects in his sea green eyes that attracts the customers to whichever booth he chooses to occupy.

Most of the time, Finnick prefers to work with Roscoe Roe. Roscoe is a fat, balding fishmonger who sweats profusely in the hot weather and swears to high heavens. Finnick doesn't have much sympathy for the man, but knows that Roscoe attended school with his father and often buys Leander's catches of the day.

"The sea bass are very good," Finnick tells the mayor's wife one afternoon, leaning across the booth to command her attention, as if he's telling her a secret. "Better than good, in fact. Roscoe only buys from the very best. To catch the best sea bass, you have to go up the coast about thirty miles. The engine has to be cut about a mile from the bay, otherwise the fish know what's coming. The place is very unknown, very untouched by man – the smallest disturbances send them scuttling away. Oh, but it's worth it, all that effort – the fish are so fat and so ripe. Like nothing else."

After he sends the gullible woman off with five pounds of sea bass, he wipes his hands on a cloth and turns to Roscoe with a grin. Roscoe stares at him with a frown and shakes his head.

"Impressed?" Finnick asks him.

"By your bullshit? No," Roscoe mutters, his words gruff and hard.

Finnick laughs. He knows Roscoe better than that – the man has a well-concealed admiration for his sales tactics. "How about that I sold five pounds of sea bass with a one hundred and fifty percent profit?"

"I suppose that's impressive," Roscoe grunts. Patting Finnick on the shoulder with his bulging fingers, he adds, "Ah, life'll come easy to you. Just you wait."

Finnick presents him with a charming smile, returning his pat on the back. He uses the cloth to wipe down the tables of the booth, using vinegar and water to dissolve the smell of the fish with an even stronger (and oftentimes more unpleasant) scent. It's no use – the stink of fish encompasses District 4, and it's all Finnick has ever known.

Up the hill and in a glade of trees, his friends are engaged in another game of Kick-The-Ball. When the market quiets down, Finnick can't help but watch them with a mournful expression. His limbs ache to be pushed to their limits, his heart screams for exertion.

But his mind patiently reminds him that this is where he belongs. There is no other life designed for him but the life of a fisherman's son.

* * *

><p>Every evening, Finnick dumps his wages on the kitchen table for his father to collect and count.<p>

"Well done, Finn," Leander says to him one night after dinner. "Another week with wages like today's and we may be able to afford the wood to repair the front steps."

"That's bloody fine," Fletcher grumbles from across the room. If the family didn't hear his words, his scowl is certainly unmistaken. "As if I don't have enough to do."

Finnick raises his head in surprise, wondering how his brother has taken offence this time. "You sore?" he asks.

"'Course not," Fletcher replies darkly. "While you're out charming the townsfolk, I'm working my fingers to the bone with dad, actually putting my skills to use."

Their mother sighs in exasperation, tired of the constant tension, but Finnick feels the need to strike back.

"What's more useful than money?" he puts forth.

"Learning to provide for your family when the money's gone," snaps Fletcher.

"I can swim laps around you," Finnick retorts. "I can fish, I can prepare, I can even make a stupid net."

Fletcher opens his mouth to argue when Leander interjects, "_Enough_."

With one final sneer in his brother's direction, Fletcher exits the kitchen, sliding past their mother in the hallway to arrive at the bedroom that he shares with Finnick.

Finnick seethes with anger as Fletcher retreats. His hands clench into fists as he hangs his head to collect himself.

"He doesn't understand you, that's all," Dixie says to her youngest son, a worried crease in her forehead. "You're both so different."

"He's reliable," Leander adds, his voice deep but quiet. "Steady as a rock. And Finnick, you're…"

Finnick raises his head, feeling as though he's just been punched in the gut.

Leander lets his last word trail off as he searches for an answer. Finnick waits, his heart sinking with every passing second. After everything he's done. All those days he could have been playing Kick-The-Ball…

Finally, Finnick gives up. Heart in his throat, he pushes out his chair and stands, staring his father in the eyes. "I'm the opposite," he announces.

He leaves the room despite his mother's soft pleas to return. Fletcher is sulking in their bedroom, so there's only one place to go.

Finnick flings open the back door and marches down the steps, peeling off his shirt and letting it fall to the sand. He strides through the water, not caring if he wakes the whole neighbourhood, and when the water is up to mid-thigh, he dives in and swims.

The water is cold, but fresh, and Finnick stays underwater just so he can escape the stench of fish that permeates every grain of sand, every particle of air, every pore of his skin. He swims forward, forward, desperate to get away from it all. Finally, when he is as deep as he dares to go, he treads water as he contemplates what to do next. Gasps of breath come in short spurts from his mouth; the water is too cold. He can't stay out for long. Before heading inland, he allows himself one more moment – a moment to close his eyes, sink underwater, and imagine he is anywhere else in the world.

Wading through the shallow water on his way back to the beach, he shakes his head to rid his hair of the excess water. He shivers. It's a good thing the night air is still warm, otherwise he'd have to race inside for a towel right away. And he can't bear the thought of facing his family again, not right now.

As it is, he picks up his discarded shirt from the ground and shakes off the sand. He bends over and uses the shirt to dry his unruly hair. When he raises his head and stares bleakly at his house, he senses a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye.

He looks to the right. Annie. She sits on the stoop just outside her back door, hands intertwined as they tug her knobbly knees to her chest. She waves at him, not saying a word.

Finnick rolls his eyes in the dark, but ultimately decides to sling his damp shirt across his shoulders and join her. Better than going inside.

"What're you doing out here so late?" he asks as he approaches.

While he situates himself beside her, she replies, "Just thinking."

Finnick leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. He turns his head to meet her eyes, wisps of her long, roan-coloured hair swaying in the breeze.

"About what?"

"My dad," she answers thoughtfully, "and what he'd say to me so I wouldn't be so nervous for my first Reaping."

The word hits him like a bullet, and Finnick realizes that he's forgotten all about the impending Reaping. It's that time of year again. Time for the 65th Annual Hunger Games.

Annie is twelve. He's forgotten that, too.

"And what does your mom say?" he asks, concealing his surprise.

"Not much, these days."

Finnick figures as much. It was stupid to ask her such a question. Poppy Cresta has been ever-so-slightly batty since Wren, her husband, went to work for the Capitol. And Annie's suffered for it. Finnick senses an unfairness in this, though he can't figure out who's to blame.

"Well, you won't be chosen," Finnick assures her, as if it's his job to do so. "You're only twelve."

"Taye was chosen."

Another knife twists in his gut. He thinks of Taye more often than he thought he would, and sometimes expects him to come lobbing around the corner in the schoolyard, a huge grin on his face and a new, fashionable game in mind he picked up from another trip to the Capitol.

He hasn't seen Taye's parents since the day he died. They still occupy the same house just a block from the District Courtyard, but they're shut-ins now. The Capitol doesn't come calling on the Ellerys anymore.

Despite his tortured thoughts, Finnick can only think to reply, "It's an honour to be chosen."

Annie's eyes flicker, meeting his with an intensity she's never shown before. Not to him, anyway.

"You really believe that?" she asks.

Truthfully, he isn't so sure. But it's all he's ever been told.

With a sad smile, he answers, "Yes."

* * *

><p>Marcocia Duterre is sporting an alluring, skin-tight, sequined lavender ball gown with straps so thin, they barely exist. The sun beats down on District 4, not a cloud in the brilliant blue sky, and the reflection on Marcocia's sequins is enough to blind the crowd.<p>

As always, Finnick and Fletcher wear their best clothes to the Reaping, their bronze hair tamed by their mother's comb. And as always, Fletcher abandons his younger brother at the boys' pool, and Finnick joins his friends in the middle of the pack. There's a malfunction with one of the videocameras, so the Peacekeepers fight to keep the audience under control while they wait. While his friends chatter excitedly, Finnick looks to the right, trying to spot Annie in the girls' section. If she was nervous two weeks ago, she'd be scared witless by now.

He can't spot her. Some of the girls are seventeen oreighteen years old, and Annie's just a skinny little thing at twelve. She's lost in the pool somewhere.

Finally, the cameras start rolling. Marcocia does all the usual introductions. Mags is mentoring again, looking frailer than the year before, and next to her is Qais, a middle-aged victor who won the games by making smart alliances… and turning his back on them.

"No point beating around the bush," Marcocia says, her lips so large that her teeth are a mystery. "Ladies first!"

As Marcocia hunts in the bowl for a slip of paper, Finnick feels his shoulders tense. With her name entered only once, it's highly unlikely that his next-door neighbour will be chosen. Still, he finds himself fiercely hoping that it's anyone else.

Marcocia unfolds the slip of paper, holds it in front of her, and announces into the microphone, "Saskia Gage."

Finnick exhales, relaxing his shoulders. The crowd cheers, but all he can hear is his heartbeat as it slows, thumping loudly in his ears. He doesn't know Saskia, and she's not Annie. Safe for another year.

"Finnick Odair."

The male tribute is called, and Finnick raises his head to another round of cheering. He waits for the tribute to make his way to the stage, repeating the name in his mind.

_Finnick Odair_.

Before he can even fully process it, his feet are moving mechanically out of the roped area, down the middle aisle, past the Peacekeepers and up the stairs to the platform.

"Congratulations, Finnick," says Marcocia, flashing him a wink.

Saskia shakes his hand with a terse smile. She's older, but can't be much more than sixteen. Time seems to have stopped and rushed by all at once. Finnick can't register what is happening.

"And congratulations to District 4 on two strong tributes to compete in the 65th Annual Hunger Games!" Marcocia grabs Finnick's wrist in one of her hands and Saskia's in the other. She holds them up to the masses, adding the traditional, "May the odds be ever in your favour!"

Finnick stares into the crowd, still at a loss for words. They're cheering for him. For _him_. It's a great honour. A_ great_ honour.

He can't think; can't act. With Marcocia holding his hand in the air as a sign of triumph, his eyes scan the hordes, searching for anyone who's familiar. Anyone he recognizes whose expression can confirm what has just happened to him.

And then he sees her. Little Annie. He spots her because she is the only person in the flailing crowd who is frozen in place. Who doesn't seem to know what to do with herself.

Finnick knows how she feels.

Their eyes connect and he hangs onto the exchange – at that moment, it's the only thing that seems real.

It may be just a trick of the sun, but he can swear he sees a tear dribble down her cheek.

* * *

><p>The fourteen-year-old tribute is permitted only a few visitors who wish to say their last goodbyes.<p>

His friends from the schoolyard. Keane and Odin. They put on a cheerful front, saying their games of Kick-The-Ball will finally be an even match while he's gone.

"Now that you're off to the Capitol," Odin says on his way out, "bring us back another game, will ya?"

_The Capitol_. He's going to the Capitol. He's barely wrapped his head around the idea of his name being called out of hundreds and hundreds of eligible contestants, let alone to process what this really means. A reminder that he's going to the Capitol, the futuristic, glamorous hub of Panem, is too much to take.

Roscoe Roe enters next. Finnick is shocked that the crotchety old grump owns a set of clothing that doesn't reek of fish, let alone that he'd come to visit his young salesman.

"Too arrogant for your own good," Roscoe says crustily. "Thought you could get away with just about anything."

Finnick raises an eyebrow, wondering if that's all he has to say. If this is his idea of a goodbye.

"Ah, but you were a good worker," Roscoe adds, patting Finnick's shoulder. "A good kid. Made a pretty penny off you."

_Were? _A new thought enters into his mind to conflict with his already-muddled emotions. People speak to him as if he's already dead.

His parents are next. Dixie has tears welling in her eyes, but Leander has clearly warned her not to cry in front of their son.

"This," he says, placing his hands on Finnick's shoulders and looking him straight in the eye, "is a great honour. You represent our district with pride. You remember what is home."

Gulping, Finnick nods bravely. His throat is dry.

"My boy," Dixie whispers, pulling him in for a hug and stroking his hair as she weeps quietly. "My boy."

Finnick is choked, suffocated. Words arise to be trapped in his throat.

Finally, smothered in his mother's embrace, he asks in a weak voice, "Fletcher?"

"He'll come," says Dixie. "He just needs a moment."

And he does. When his parents exit, Fletcher is ushered in by a Peacekeeper. Finnick stares expectantly, waiting for him to speak.

Fletcher opens his mouth, then shuts it, rethinking his words.

Finnick sits on the bench and rests his elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. He'll let Fletcher have all the time he needs to gather his thoughts.

"Must be nice," Fletcher finally says, bitterness dripping from his tongue. "Charmed life you have there."

Suddenly on edge, Finnick raises his head to glare at his brother.

"You know, I almost volunteered," he continues, nodding to Finnick as if Finnick should already know. "Almost took your place, just so _I_ could be the important one for once. Just so_ you_ would have to stay at home and work your fingers to the bone every day while I was the center of attention. I just wanted to know how it feels. Just once."

His green eyes darkening, Finnick suppresses the urge to attack his own flesh and blood. For his idiocy. His ignorance.

"But then I thought," Fletcher continues, pacing around the room with hands in his pockets, "when you don't come home, maybe that won't matter anymore."

He stops. Stares unflinchingly at Finnick, who can't believe what he is hearing.

The older Odair shrugs, his expression solemn, eyes blank. "Guess we'll just have to wait and see."

He leaves without another word, and Finnick is alone. He waits. He waits and waits for another visitor, but when he is finally ushered out of the room and into the train, he realizes that was it.

There are no neighbour-girls coming to say goodbye.

* * *

><p><strong>If you've made it this far, then thanks for sticking around! My idea for <em>Knotted<em> is just to give Finnick and Annie a history - Suzanne Collins wrote them in a way that left so much to the imagination, and their story is just so sad and so lovely that I had to know what it was... even if that meant writing it myself.**

**With that said, I think I have enough material at my disposal to update fairly regularly. I'm hoping that twice a week, every Thursday and Sunday, will be a fairly realistic goal for me :) **

**Thanks again for reading!**


	3. through chaos as it swirls

**Chapter 3: **_65__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

The Capitol is enormous. It's much smaller than District 4 in area, but its technological enormity is not something that escapes Finnick's attention. It's like stepping into the future. There are buildings everywhere – some more than twenty, _forty _floors. People dress as though each day is a Reaping Ceremony. And there is a constant buzz about the place – even when Finnick lies awake in bed in the dark, early hours of the morning, there are noises. Incessant hums of activity coming from just outside his window. The Capitol does not sleep.

He is wide-eyed and enamoured, despite the reality of his situation. The Capitol is what makes him know he's not dreaming, for he never could have imagined a place so alive and so vibrant.

It's difficult to focus on the upcoming Games, though he knows he should. The tributes from Districts 1 and 2 seem interested in him, and it hits him that he is considered a Career tribute – so much better prepared than the tributes from the poorer, hungrier districts.

He knows the interests of his fellow tributes also stem from the fact that he has caught the attention of the crowd. The audience never screams louder than when he makes his appearances. His mentors gave him advice for his interview with Caesar Flickerman, but he forgets every word and instead flashes a few grins and pronounces his fascination with the Capitol. That earns him more points than his team had ever expected.

In Training, he makes an effort to speak to the stronger tributes. The older ones who might take him under their wing. He practices camouflage and setting snares and throwing spears, but mostly observes the others and gets to know them. In private presentation with the panel of judges, he demonstrates his agility with a trident and ranks amongst the highest of the contestants.

His stylist, Desmeretta, is his favourite Capitol personality by far. With her wonky blue curls and silver tattoos that creep up her neck and cover the right side of her face, she's just as intriguing to him as anything in the Capitol. While she inspects him at fittings, she's always quick to mention that she can't wait to design for him once he's won the Games.

"Your Victory Tour'll be easy as pie," she tells him. "I'll put golden flecks in your hair, spray you with bronzer and send you off without a shirt. You'll win everyone's hearts before you even open your mouth."

Finnick wonders if he likes Desmeretta so much simply because she speaks of his future. She's the only person who dares to these days.

His moments with Desmeretta are amongst the only times he allows himself to think beyond the present. Past and future are otherwise effectively shut out of his mind. He won't think of those he's left behind, and he won't think of what's destined to come.

Unless his mentors, Mags and Qais, are determined to talk strategy. And most of the time, they are. They throw situations at him and he must spit back his plan of action. What if the arena is a frozen wasteland? What if there's no game to hunt? What if there's a flood? A drought? What if it's too humid? Too cold?

Finnick hates these questions. He answers them; he works out a strategy with his mentors – but he hates every minute of it. It only reminds him of the danger that lies ahead. It lights a very prominent, very paralyzing fear in his heart.

In moments like these, when he chokes upon thinking of home and balks at the thought of the Arena, he waits for Qais and Saskia, Marcocia and the prep team to retreat for the night. Then he has Mags, the wise seventy-year-old victor, all to himself. Someone he feels he can trust.

"One thing at a time," she tells him. "We're giving you all the knowledge you need now to develop a solid strategy when you're in the arena. As long you take a step back and breathe, you can work through it."

Finnick nods, a worried crease in his brow.

"You're ahead of the pack, Finnick. What is it you're worried about?"

He contemplates her question, digging into his subconscious. "It's… everyone has such high expectations. But what if I'm… what if it's all…?"

"Not good enough?" she finishes.

With a gulp, he nods again. Wetting his lips, he cracks, "What's so great about me, Mags?"

A soft chuckle escapes her lips. "Why, I thought you knew."

He gives her a pained glance.

Unfazed, she continues, "You're a smart boy, Finnick. Smarter than most of the tributes I've worked with, even the older ones. You're high-spirited. You can turn yourself on in front of an audience – it's rare that you show any vulnerability. You're quick-witted and endearing." She sits back in her chair, adding nonchalantly, "And it doesn't hurt that your smile has all of Panem in hysterics."

He can't help but grin at that.

"Yes, that's the one," Mags says. "Finnick, the real trick of the Games is not to let your insecurities get to you. Stay strong, every minute of every day. Remove your heart so that instinct takes over."

"Is that what you did?" he asks.

"That's what all victors did," is her sober reply. "Trust me on that."

He releases a shaky breath, knowing that he must rid himself of these moments of weakness before stepping into the arena.

"Everyone's scared, you know. That's what you need to remember."

Everyone is scared for themselves. An image of Annie flashes in his mind. He hasn't thought about her since the day of the Reaping. If anyone is scared for him, it's her.

"I don't wanna die," he whispers, lip quivering.

Mags leans close to him, gripping his wrist in her bony hand. Fixing her eyes on his, she says fiercely, "Then live."

Tears threatening to spill from his eyes, he nods quickly, exhaling to compose himself. He whispers one last thing to Mags:

"Okay."

* * *

><p>A glass cylinder lifts Finnick from the Launch Room to the platform in the Arena. As is customary, all tributes surround the Cornucopia in the center – the giant, golden horn filled with weapons and supplies. They will have sixty seconds to get their bearings in the Arena and develop a strategy for gaining supplies. Then the Games will begin.<p>

Finnick's eyes are alert as he rises onto the platform. The glass cylinder lowers around him until he stands free, in the fresh open air of the Arena.

_Sixty seconds_.

He catches a glimpse of Saskia four platforms over. She's been so strong throughout the training, but suddenly, she appears overcome by nerves.

He can't worry about her. Instead, he surveys the Cornucopia – packs and weapons lie within it and spill out of its mouth, but the fact is that if any of the tributes want to set off with some supplies, they're going to have to cluster together and fight for them.

_Forty-five seconds_.

He wants a trident. Oh, let there be some sort of spear in there! And a loaf of bread with some fruit or crackers will help to tide him over until he can figure out what's edible in the arena.

_Thirty seconds_.

It's hard to judge the size of the Arena as the Cornucopia is hidden in a clearing in the woods. Towering trees surround the tributes in a perfect circle. There's no telling which way one should go to find shelter, food or water.

_Fifteen seconds_.

He can't spot the District 2 tributes – they must be hidden behind the Cornucopia – but he spots the male tribute from District 1 on his right. They meet each other's eyes and nod. Allies, it seems.

The clock begins to count down. In ten seconds, the landmines surrounding the platforms will deactivate. The Arena will be a free-for-all.

_Nine… eight…_

Finnick takes one last deep breath, steadying his eyes on the target.

_Seven… six…_

_If I have to die_, he thinks, _this isn't such a horrible place to_-

BANG!

All tributes startle at the sound, whipping their heads to the noise. Landmines have exploded around one of the platforms. All that remains is a cloud of smoke and a burnt hole in the ground.

One of the tributes is already dead. It's impossible to know who.

_Two… one_…

There's another burst of noise to alert the tributes that their time is up. Many stay rooted to their platform, terrified to move and in shock over what has just happened.

But not Finnick. He runs for his life.

"Ladies and gentlemen," booms the familiar voice of Claudius Templesmith, "let the 65th Annual Hunger Games begin!"

* * *

><p>On his second day in the Arena, Finnick receives the first gift from his sponsors. He receives it in the dark of night, on guard while his Allies – both tributes from District 2, the male from District 1, and a brute from District 6 – sleep. It floats down from the sky attached to a small parachute, landing safely in the palms of his hands. He's not in want of food or water – the Careers have secured themselves enough of that, as well as amassing themselves with as much weaponry as they could defend at the Cornucopia.<p>

But no tridents, much to Finnick's dismay. He's shoddy with a bow and arrow and not particularly adept with daggers.

When he unwraps the parcel, he finds coils and coils of very thin – but very strong – rope. He could wake the others; let him know of their newly-acquired supply. But something tells him that Mags wants him to keep this to himself. To save it for the opportune moment.

Finnick stuffs the coils into the pouch at his belt and, with quiet, slow movements, buries the parachute in the dirt.

By day seven, Finnick's clothes are worn, but otherwise, he's in good physical shape. Generous sponsors have ensured that he never goes hungry, and he has a vial of medicine in his stockpile, too. Just two days ago, the Careers went to the pond nearby their shelter to refill their canteens with water, only to discover that the water had been poisoned. A clever trick of the gamemakers'.

The poison had killed the male tribute from District 2 almost instantly. He'd taken the largest gulp. The rest of them writhed on the ground, choking and convulsing and hallucinating, until a parachute had dropped from the sky into Finnick's outstretched hand. Trembling, he'd opened the vial and gulped.

He shared the medicine with the male from District 1 and the female from District 2. By the time he got around to the District 6 tribute, it was too late. His skin had turned a purplish-grey and he convulsed no more.

Since then, the Careers had moved their shelter each night, searching for a reliable source of water – although in the Games, nothing was reliable. They'd also killed two tributes who'd been so stupid as to set a faulty snare to entrap them while waiting nearby. The first had been killed by bow and arrow, courtesy of District 2. The second, when she'd tried to flee, had been hunted down by the male from District 1. He'd tackled her from behind and flipped her around while he straddled her. Finnick heard her gasping pleads for mercy, her apologies, her prayers – and then there was an axe in her skull.

When the time came, Finnick wondered who in his alliance would turn on whom. If Districts 1 and 2 ganged up on him, would he get an axe to the skull? An arrow in the back? Or would they simply dunk him in the poison water and leave him writhing in agony on the ground until he slowly, painfully left the world? The other Careers show no mercy, and Finnick hates, fears and admires them for it.

Nine tributes remain, by Finnick's count. He and the two other Careers are on a hunt for the female from District 6. Their dead ally from the same district had informed them that she's particularly skilled in the art of camouflage. Better to hunt her out now than face a lonely, frustrating dilemma at the end of the Games.

The woods end, opening into another clearing. They tread carefully into the clearing, weapons at the ready. Finnick wields a machete, which he fervently hopes he will not have to use. The thought of it is vile.

Halfway across the clearing, they begin to relax. If someone were going to launch an attack of arrows or spears, they surely would have done so by now.

It is as they re-enter the woods on the opposite side of the clearing that things change.

A tribute drops from high in the trees, launching himself onto the female from District 2. She's knocked to the ground, slit across the throat, and dead almost instantly.

The District 1 tribute is in shock for only a split second before he engages in combat with the tribute. District 1 has an axe, but it's too heavy for him to wield in the fight.

"Finnick!" he bellows, attempting to hold down the attacker. He means for Finnick to use his machete.

Eight tributes left. No need to sever the alliance just yet. But at what price?

Eyes wild with madness, Finnick raises his weapon over his shoulder, approaching the restrained attacker.

"Kill him and you die," says a calm voice from behind.

Despite the grunts and groans of the two in battle, Finnick swirls around to face Saskia. She's approaching him with a bow and arrow aimed straight for his forehead.

He shakes his head slowly. "Saskia, no."

"Finnick!" District 1 calls again.

"I'll do it," she warns.

"_Kill him_!"

Finnick looks over his shoulder at the struggling pair. The tribute from District 1 still has the upper hand, but they're matched for strength and he's waning.

"You have three seconds to drop your weapon," Saskia tells him.

The tribute from District 1 screams in frustration.

Finnick drops the machete and holds up his empty hands. "Saskia," he mouths. "It's okay."

Saskia begins to lower the bow. Finnick breathes a huge sigh of relief.

And then, with the last ounce of strength he can muster, the boy from District 1 reaches across the earth for Finnick's discarded weapon and kills his opponent before anyone can blink an eyeball.

Venom in his voice, he points the machete at Finnick and growls, "We're done."

Then he sprints into the woods, armed with an axe, a machete, and a backpack of supplies.

As he flees, Saskia raises her weapon again, though Finnick blocks her from a shot of District 1.

"Don't shoot!" he cries, wincing at the thought that she might kill him here and now.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because I can help you," he spits out. "We can help each other."

"What can _you _do for me?"

"I have supplies," he says, motioning to his pack. "I'm fast. I'm a quick thinker. I know what he's—" he points to the tribute who's just escaped in the woods, "—capable of and what his strategies are." He catches his breath, realizing that he's literally begging for his life. "And," he adds, "I get sponsor gifts. I've gotten three of them already. If you keep me alive, they'll send more."

"Arrogant bastard," she snarls, though she lowers her weapons once again.

"Not arrogant. Just honest," Finnick replies, flashing her an innocent smile.

Saskia raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Still a bastard, though."

* * *

><p>At the end of day nine, Finnick and Saskia watch the sky light up with a projected image of the girl from District 6. Wherever she was hiding, it's likely that the boy from District 1 has found her.<p>

Six tributes remain.

The day before, the District 4 tributes had received a dinner feast from their sponsors. They laid low in their shelter in the woods and happily ate away. They'd rationed it for the next few days, so as they watch the girl from District 6 fade away in the sky, they munch on crackers and cheese.

Finnick looks over at Saskia, her eyelids drooping.

"Sleep," he tells her. "I've got the first watch."

Obediently, she crawls into the little hut they've made, threading together sticks and leaves, and curls herself into a ball. Finnick sits at the opening of the hut, staring into the distance.

He wonders now how he will die. It's not a question of if; it's _when_. He can't aim an arrow accurately enough to kill. His machete was taken by the boy from District 1. The only real weapon he has is his knowledge – from hunting with the Careers, he was able to develop a fairly solid map of the Arena and can remember where the ponds are, which is a good indicator of where all the tributes are hiding.

Other than that, he feels useless. And the useless tribute perishes in the Arena.

He'll never see District 4 again.

"What do you miss most?" Saskia asks him sleepily, as if she can read his thoughts.

"Huh?" he asks.

"I miss the clear blue sky," she answers for herself. "The sky over the Capitol was always a hazy grey. Did you notice that?"

He pauses. He'd noticed, but had been so enthralled with the Capitol that he hadn't wasted time on comparisons. "Yeah," he murmurs.

"And I miss the waves. How they used to lull me to sleep," she goes on.

"Uh huh," he says, leaning his back against the hut. He tries not to listen. It hurts to think of those things.

"And my momma," she finishes, her voice wavering. "She'd tell me not to be afraid of the dark, not to worry. She wouldn't let anything happen to me…"

While Finnick stares out into the serene woods, Saskia sobs quietly to herself. He has no words to comfort her. Not when he's so sure of his own miserable fate.

She cries herself to sleep. He feels his crusty heart hardening.

* * *

><p>The following day, there are no deaths. Saskia and Finnick are on edge, knowing that the gamemakers will soon manipulate the final tributes into closer quarters, forcing them to duke it out. Between the two of them, they only possess one bow with five arrows. There's no way they stand a chance.<p>

Finnick paces around their hut most of the day, kicking trees and groaning to himself when he thinks of what's to come. He can't devise a plan when he has no leverage. There's just no way in which he can see himself coming out on top.

Until it's dark again. Finnick takes the second watch, waking up well past midnight to stay up until the dawn. To calm himself, he listens to Saskia's breaths grow deeper and deeper.

He waits at the foot of the hut, thinking of anything but home for an hour or so. The forest is deadly quiet – not even crickets are chirping anymore.

Something flashes overhead. He looks up – another parcel is floating downwards. And this time, it's a big one.

Stealthily, Finnick pushes himself to a standing position to catch the next sponsor gift in his hands. He stares in disbelief – it's a trident. A real trident, just like the ones he'd spent years using to fish.

Then he feels around in the pouch on his belt. He's almost forgotten the coils that were given to him so early on in the games. Rope and a trident… two of the most familiar things in Finnick's world.

He looks up to the sky, a crazed smile on his face. "Thank you," he breathes to whoever is up there. Mags. Qais. Adoring sponsors in the Capitol. "You've saved my life."

He knows now what he must do. What they intend him to do.

Steel-faced, he enters the hut. Saskia sleeps peacefully.

_She wouldn't let anything happen to me_…

He hoists his weapon.

Before he sends the trident through her chest, her eyes fly open and lock with his.

Then, through the solitude of the woods, a cannon booms.

* * *

><p>Within three days, he's killed them all.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Yikes. <strong>

**Up next: Our victor's homecoming. Although, as you may recall, there was at least one personality from District 4 who didn't bank on Finnick returning...**

**Thank you for all the favourite-ing and reviewing and such :) You've all been most kind!**


	4. bring back the water

**Chapter 4: **_65__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

Everyone has their own particular words of congratulations for Finnick when he emerges as the victor of the 65th Annual Hunger Games.

"Good thing you came back alive," Desmeretta tells him, her silver facial tattoos crinkling as she winks at him. "I'd be devastated if all my Victory Tour wardrobe plans were for nothing."

Marcocia hugs his head tightly to her breasts, which are nearly exposed in the low-cut top she's wearing. "Oh, I so hoped it would be you this year," she says with a squeeze. "You had my eye from the moment you were chosen."

"Fierce," says Qais about his performance in the arena. He'd been more of Saskia's mentor than Finnick's. Still, Qais gives him a warm smile and a handshake, adding, "Glad it's one of our own this year."

Seneca Crane, one of many gamemakers, nods at him in a flurry and makes a puzzling comment: "Well, the odds were certainly in your favour."

But it's the Capitol's reaction that stuns him the most. They want to see him, to hear him, to touch him. They scream at his name and nearly knock themselves unconscious at the sight of him. He's never known such rabid desire and doubts he deserves it. Not now – now that his blood runs cold.

Before Finnick leaves the Capitol to reunite with his family in District 4, he has one last visitor.

President Snow meets with him in secret, bringing along only one of his personal staff members – Radman, whose bulky chest and darting yellow eyes cause Finnick to once again fear for his life. When the president shakes Finnick's hand, his fingers are cold and stiff, wrapping around Finnick's hand like he never intends to let go.

"Congratulations, Mr. Odair," the President says, his ice blue eyes boring into Finnick.

"Thank you, sir," Finnick replies dutifully.

"It's come to my attention that you have a great following in the Capitol."

Finnick shrugs. "Not more so than any other victor, I'm sure."

"I wouldn't say so," Snow says with an arched eyebrow. "The frenzy that takes over whenever anyone mentions your name is quite… unexpected."

Deciding to be charming, Finnick grins. "Doesn't bother me."

"No, of course not," Snow forces a stiff chuckle. "The Capitol is enamoured with you, young man. And with great adoration of a people comes great possibility to the one adored."

An uneasy taste is in Finnick's mouth. He swallows, and the feeling settles in his stomach. It doesn't make him sick – just cold.

"You'll come back to see us now, won't you?" Snow asks.

Finnick nods slowly. "Yes, on the Victory Tour. And I suppose when I mentor tributes in the future."

"Yes, of course," Snow says again, narrowing his eyes as though sizing up the victor. "You're still young. There's plenty of time. We'll make the arrangements then."

"Arrangements, sir?"

Ignoring his question, the President's lips instead curl into a rather nasty smile. "Enjoy your reunion with your family, Mr. Odair. We'll be seeing you soon."

The only person Finnick will relay this conversation to is Mags.

"Odd," is all she says. "Very unusual… but not unheard of."

And then she gets a faraway look in her eyes, warning Finnick that she's best left alone to her suspicions.

* * *

><p>Finnick has dreamed of stepping off the train in District 4 since the moment the trident was bestowed upon him in the arena. He has dreamed of victory parades and wild celebrations in the streets. He's dreamed of his family's glory as they welcome him back with open arms. Most of all, he's dreamed of stepping foot in the district and knowing that he'll be able to step out again. Saying the hell to fishing and rejoining his group of friends for games of Kick-The-Ball. Feeling like District 4 owes <em>him<em> something, for once, instead of the grudging loyalty he has felt to his home and his family's destiny.

When the time comes to step off that train, Finnick struggles to remember his dreams.

Mags and Qais proclaim that it's good to be home, but Finnick can't feel anything at all. He stares at the deep blue sky, unobstructed by clouds or haze, and wonders if Saskia would appreciate this more than him. If_ she_ should be the one stepping off the train.

Of course, it's too late for that – now that he's murdered her.

He is sure that if he was cut open, surgeons would find nothing there. He is hollow to his core.

Celebrations are had. Finnick is glorified in the District Court. Everyone chants his name; everyone wants a chance to speak with the victor. The district is abuzz with his story: the boy who had no hope, until he had all the hope in the world.

Finnick smiles for the citizens of his home district. Cuts ribbons. Kisses babies. He flexes when they ask him to flex. And when they ask him about the Arena – when they force his most painful, abhorrent memories to the forefront of his mind – he gives them the answers they're looking for without so much as an outward wince.

He doesn't feel triumphant. All he feels is shame, and the shame penetrates every morsel of his being.

His family is moved into the Victor's Village, miles away from their heritage home on the beach. The Victor's Village smells like a meadow, with fresh green grass, morning dew and wildflowers. The air doesn't sit right with Finnick. Sometimes it causes his stomach to flip. It's strange and unwelcome, and despite every moment of his youth telling him otherwise, he yearns for the stench of fish. The sting of saltwater in his eyes after a morning swim in the sea. Skin so red and singed by the sun that it peels off and never turns cold.

The new house is clean, untouched and large. Finnick and Fletcher no longer have to share a bedroom, but Finnick finds that he misses the sound of steady breathing from across the room at night. It was always a good reminder that he wasn't alone.

Everyone in Panem knows his name. Girls fawn over him at school and the fishmongers now practically beg him to drop by the fish market to promote business. Everywhere he goes, he is noticed. Recognized. He is welcomed with smiles and open arms.

And yet, like his solitary bedroom in the quiet Victor's Village, he is so wholly, dreadfully alone. Pieces of his old self crumble and wither away every passing day. He is not the same boy he was. He's not a boy at all, really.

He is a victor. And a victor's reward is nothing but an empty shell of a life.

* * *

><p>Dixie weeps for him an awful lot. When he goes to bed. When he helps to prepare supper. When he returns her "I love you's". Even when he appeases the crowd by allowing pretty girls to kiss him on the cheek or answering passers-by when they ask him what the Arena was <em>really<em> like. Everything he does is suddenly a miracle to her.

"My boy," she says to him, taking his head in her hands and kissing his forehead. "My sweet, sweet boy."

And every time she does, he feels Fletcher's glare burning a hole in the back of his head.

Finnick now has enough riches to provide for the whole family for the rest of their lives. Leander doesn't need to fish anymore, but he does when he can simply to feel useful.

"Son," he says, netting thrown over his shoulder as he prepares to depart one morning. "Come with me. With you and your trident, we'll break the record books with you on board. Come. I need to spend time with my son."

Standing behind him with his own sharpened trident, Fletcher's eyes are rimmed with loathing.

"Our brave little boy gets served first," Dixie always says at dinnertime, giving him the largest helpings.

"He's given us the greatest honour a family could have," Leander boasts to his fisherman friends.

"I'm just so glad you're here," Dixie coos when she hugs him. "Seeing your face again – it's like I've come back to life."

"You've made us proud, son," Leander tells him, arm around Finnick's shoulders. "You've made your old man so proud."

And with each passing day, Fletcher grows increasingly bitter. Until one day, when the bitterness morphs into a hatred whose roots sink deep into his bones.

Finnick brings home beef for dinner. It was imported at a high price from District 10, and it's supposed to be tender and juicy. He announces his purchase to his mother's delight, and she sweeps it from his arms and takes it to the kitchen to begin the preparations.

Fletcher watches her exit and then announces that he's going to fish.

"It's the evening," Finnick says, glancing out the window at the dusk. "And we have dinner."

"Well, I don't have mine."

"What do you mean? I bought it for all of us." Finnick creases his brow.

"With what? With your murder money?" Fletcher retorts. Finnick is too stunned to respond, so he continues, "No, thank you. I'll come by my food honestly."

He picks up his supplies and makes a move to leave.

"Fletch," Finnick says, gathering his wits, "you don't mean that."

"Oh, I do," Fletcher sneers, flinging open the front door.

Finnick races after him, eager to make him stay. "I won for this family, you know," he says through gritted teeth, though he knows it isn't true. "I won for _us_."

Fletcher finds this interesting. He stops in his tracks and turns on his heels. "Did you?" he asks, a derisive smile crossing his face. "That's funny. I thought I made it clear that I was banking on you not coming home. That we'd get along just fine."

"Why can't you be happy for me?" Finnick exclaims, unable to mask the pain in his words. "Why can't you be like everybody else?"

"Because everybody else is terrified of you," Fletcher spits back. "Can't you see that? They watched you _kill_. Over and over and over. They can't forget that. Every time they see you, they remember the way you killed your ally from District 4. The way you speared your District 1 enemy with a chuckle and a crazed look in your eyes."

It's all he can do not to squeeze his eyes shut and block his ears with his hands. The images Fletcher brings to mind are the ones that torment him deep in the night, the ones he locks and buries in the darkest of places during the day. Heart racing, Finnick is falling. Somewhere in his mind, he's falling and falling and soon he'll hit the ground. Splatter into a million pieces.

"You think Dad's happy living here? You think he wanted to give up his life's work for riches and luxury? If that's true, then why does he still spend every day in ratty old clothes in the sea? And what about Mom? You think she weeps because she's happy you're alive? No, Finn. She weeps because she knows you're a monster."

It's as though a cannonball has been shot at his ribs. He's pained – physically pained. It hurts so much because there's a part of him that swears Fletcher's words are true.

"So I'll get my own food. I'll make my own way. And if you find yourself alone in the end, then God have mercy on you. I sure as hell won't."

He strides away, leaving Finnick leaning on the doorframe for support.

He's right. He knows his brother is right because the same thoughts have plagued him since stepping foot on District 4 soil after the Games. The fame, the fortune, the friends – it's all lies. How could anyone love him? How could anyone love a killer?

* * *

><p>"It's not what I thought it would be, Mags," Finnick confesses to his mentor one bright and sunny afternoon. He's dropped by her house in the Victor's Village for tea.<p>

"Nothing ever is," she says wisely, pushing the bowl of sugar across the table to him.

"I thought I'd get out of the district and feel cultured for exploring Panem. The whole country would chant my name. I'd never want for anything again. And my family… I thought they'd… I thought everything would be perfect," he finishes.

Mags sips her tea. "Oh, the Hunger Games never makes anything perfect," she says. "Quite the opposite."

"Did you feel this way?" He looks to her for guidance.

"Lost? Alone? Scared? Hopeless?"

He opens his mouth to correct her, but when the words sink in, he knows that's exactly what he is. So he nods.

Mags nods with him. "Yes, of course. And like you, I got everything I'd ever wanted from the Games. Money. Fame. The world. But when you acquire it with a damaged soul, it doesn't mean a thing."

Cradling the mug of tea in both his hands, Finnick stares at the hot liquid and asks, "A damaged soul?"

Mags watches him struggle with her words. Then she sighs. Grabs his wrist, wrenches it from the mug, and holds his hand in hers.

"Finnick, you must know I think very highly of you," she said. "And I'm glad you did what you did. You were one tribute I couldn't have stood to lose."

He raises his bleak eyes to meet hers.

"But you can't win the Games by being honest and kind. You have to be selfish, cold-blooded and cruel. All of the victors are at heart. We're not good people, Finnick. If we were, we'd have died in there."

His hopes crumble. His shoulders sag, his eyes sink.

"And this is our punishment," she says. "Life is our punishment. The Games were simple. Now comes the hard part."

* * *

><p>He hates his bedroom in the new house in the Victor's Village. The pillows are too soft. The blankets are too warm. And worst of all, the room is dead silent, like he's in isolation. He longs for the deep breaths of another to soothe him to sleep.<p>

Because in the quiet dark, the nightmares come. The dangerous rustling of the trees. The bow and arrow he can't seem to aim. His victims' eyes, wide and pleading, before he takes their lives with his trident.

And when he wakes, gasping and thrashing, there is no one there. He's alone. Like he's the only person left in the world.

So he runs. He runs in the dark, away from his nightmares, away from the bed that was made for a victor. He lets his feet take him away and doesn't care where he's going as long as it's far from home.

Sometimes –_ often_, really – he ends up at the beach. He convinces himself it's because he needs to breathe in the salty air and listen to the waves roll in, but deep down, he knows he needs to visit his home, too. His_ real_ home. In the black, early hours of the morning, he catches his breath from his few miles' run and plops down in the sand just behind his family home. Sometimes he lays back to gaze at the stars. Others, he pulls his knees to his chest and watches the tide. But he never lets himself fall asleep. He won't let this place be tainted by his nightmares.

"You come here an awful lot," says a small voice one evening. He recognizes the voice instantly, although until now, he'd forgotten about the scrawny, curious neighbour-girl with the broken mother.

"Go away, Annie," is his response. Tonight he sits watching the waves, imagining that they are washing away the bodies of every tribute he's killed.

As always, she ignores him. Tentatively, she takes a seat beside him in the sand. He can feel her eyes on him, but he won't look back. He can't bear to see the fear in her eyes when she looks upon him. He can't face the innocent girl he used to know. Not after what he's done. Who he's become.

"Go back inside," he murmurs.

"Do you really want to be alone?" she asks.

Licking his lips, he nods.

The tide brushes the tips of their toes as Annie whispers, "I don't believe you."

Those are the last words they exchange, but she sits with him until dawn breaks.

* * *

><p><strong>Is everything, like... cool so far? I have to be honest: I've never written novel-based fan fiction before, and I've also only read the Hunger Games series twice - once in 2010 and once a month ago - so I can't promise that I have a firm grip on Collins' world or anything. I'm aiming not to draw too much attention to that, but you can let me know. I think Suzanne Collins created a really compelling world, and I wouldn't change anything she's written (well, there are SOME things...), I just want to expand on it.<strong>

**With that said, thanks for sticking with me so far :) See you Thursday!**


	5. lift off this blindfold let me see again

**Chapter 5: **_66__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

Finnick is the youngest mentor in the history of the Hunger Games.

While it's a requirement of all victors of the Games to act as mentor to future tributes, it's up to the victors of a particular district to make the arrangements each year as to who will mentor. Generally, two mentors train two tributes, unless a district is home to only one victor, like in the small and impoverished District 12.

In District 4, there are seven male and three female victors. Mags mentors most years, saving the other female tributes from the agony and heartbreak. She tells him that the male pool mostly takes turns, and they won't ask him to mentor at such a young age.

She's right. It's not the male tributes who ask him to mentor. It's a request from the Capitol. Straight from the desk of President Snow.

_Mr. Odair,_

_It would be a delight to see you again at the Games this year. Your Victory Tour left many in the Capitol wanting more, and what better way to show your appreciation than by returning to the Games that gave you everything? You were a remarkable tribute and there is no doubt that you'll make a remarkable mentor._

_We'll see you soon._

_Sincerely,_

_President C. Snow_

The letter, written in Snow's own script, starts Finnick's stomach churning unpleasantly.

As soon as he gets his letter, he races across the Victor's Village to Mags' house. She's the only one with whom he'll trust to share it.

"How strange," Mags says, her tone distant.

"So this hasn't happened before?" he asks.

Disturbed, she shakes her head. "Not to a victor so young. Then again, I can't recall a victor younger than yourself."

"Well, I'm not doing it," he announces, holding his nose in the air and sitting himself down at the kitchen table. "Besides, Trib has already agreed to be the male mentor this year."

"You have no choice," Mags replies ominously.

"What do you mean? He doesn't say it's mandatory. He just says 'it would be a delight'."

"And it's an order nonetheless," Mags finishes. "You must go."

Finnick came for support – not this. The idea of venturing back into the mindset of the Games makes him ill. He feels like he has barely just returned from his Victory Tour, and staring into the faces of the families of the tributes he'd killed himself was not so triumphant as it was downright torturous.

He furrows his brow. "But I don't want to. I-I can't. What does he want with me?"

Again, she shakes her head. Crossing the room, she looks out the window over her kitchen sink and breathes in deeply. "I don't know, my dear. But it can't be something good."

* * *

><p>As she does every so often, Annie joins him on the beach the night before the Reaping Ceremony. He's had another restless sleep plagued with nightmares, and she has a mother whose eye isn't particularly watchful.<p>

"Scared for tomorrow?" he asks her, gripping a smooth stone he's found in the sand. He's on edge, nearly shaking with fury - or nerves - as he dreads his return to the Capitol.

"Yes," she admits.

He admires her honesty. For once, he takes a note from her book, replying, "Me, too."

"But you're a victor," she points out. "Your name won't be entered tomorrow."

"I'm a mentor," he tells her. "I'm going to the Games no matter what. And the best case scenario is that only one of the kids I meet tomorrow is going to die."

Annie pauses, taking her eyes from his face and staring at her hands. "Already? But it's so soon. You just came back."

"I know!" he cries angrily, flinging his stone into the sea. Calming himself, he leans his head forward and runs his fingers through his hair. "I know, Annie. I'm not ready. I can't go back."

He rocks himself back and forth, cradling his head in his hands.

"How can I be a mentor?" he asks, voice cracking with emotion. "How can I tell a tribute to hold it together when I'm falling apart?"

After a few moments, he feels Annie's head leaning against his shoulder. He is bent forward, consumed in his own grief – but he doesn't snap at her, knowing that she needs comfort, too.

"Why are they doing this?" she asks.

He shakes his head. He doesn't know. He's conflicted in his feelings for the Capitol. He's even conflicted in his feelings for District 4, his home. But there's one thing he knows for sure: he hates the Hunger Games. The Games made him into what he is – a murderer. The Games took everything from him. His home, his brother. His life.

He feels Annie breathe shakily against him. "Finn, I don't want you to leave again."

When he leans back, she removes her head from his shoulder. Her eyes are similar to his in colour: sea green and bright. He looks upon her with a pained expression. It may be her naivety at the young age of thirteen, but she's the only person who still believes he's inherently good. A stupid girl. Stupid, but someone he desperately wants to trust.

"Stand where I can see you tomorrow," he asks of her, remembering how he sought a glance of her at last year's Reaping and never found her until the bitter end.

"I will," she promises. "Will you look at me? When they're choosing the female?"

Fear stirs in his chest at the thought. He shuts his eyes. Nods solemnly.

"I will."

* * *

><p>The Capitol seems a little smaller this year to Finnick. Rather than a wide open space, Finnick views it now as a dome that can close in on him at any time. He and Mags have two seventeen-year-old tributes this year. They are two years older than Finnick and already he can sense that they despise him. How could he, a young boy of fourteen, survive the games, when at least one of them must die?<p>

At the same time, he feels relief at their unwillingness to accept him as a mentor. The cooler their relationship, the easier it will be when they go. Not _easier_ – just less difficult.

His efforts to maintain a calculated distance are normally foiled by Marcocia, who sidles up to him any chance she can get and proclaims his bravery, his wit, and his confidence to the District 4 tributes. She strokes his arm, threads her fingers through his hair and whispers little comments in his ear. And when she hugs him – which is often – she presses her breasts into his chest and wiggles. It becomes increasingly difficult to prevent himself from lashing out, snarling or recoiling in discomfort.

His only comfort comes from his moments with Mags, and even then, it's only when they're not discussing strategy for their tributes. Which is almost never – the Games need most of their efforts. Which tributes are the strongest, which tributes are most likely to get sponsors, which tributes would make the best allies, what the tributes' mentors are telling them (Mags is much more useful in this category than Finnick, as she has known all of the mentors for years).

Despite all their work, ultimately, one or both of their tributes will die. So what's the point?

Finnick finds it strange and unnatural for Panem to be cheering children on to their deaths. Children who never had the chance to live. Children who will never get to grow up. Children who never did anything wrong.

* * *

><p>The day before the 66th Annual Hunger Games begin, Finnick receives a message from President Snow through his messenger, Radman. Radman is a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick, threatening limbs and dark eyebrows set in a permanent frown.<p>

"The President would be honoured if you'd join him tomorrow at the Launch Party for the Hunger Games," he tells Finnick.

"But that's when my tributes go into the Arena," Finnick replies, instantly regretting his words. Of course, Radman knows that.

"The other mentor can handle your tributes for the first few hours," he says, his deep voice almost robotic.

Finnick senses that this is not a request or an invitation – it's an order. Much like the "nudge" he got from President Snow to become a mentor this year.

What could Snow want from him?

He confides in Mags, who is disturbed by it all but who assures him she'll be fine acting as mentor alone until his return.

The Launch Party is held in the center of the Capitol, in a grand ballroom inside the President's Mansion. Finnick arrives feeling stuffy in his collared shirt and blazer, eyes widening at the outlandish costumes and hairstyles of the guests. The Capitol citizens place a high value on both fashion and innovation, but Finnick can't help but think they all look rather ridiculous.

Radman meets him at the door. "Very glad you could make it, Mr. Odair," he says, pulling Finnick aside before he can enter the ballroom. "The President will be quite pleased."

Finnick nearly rolls his eyes at the formality – the pointed eyebrows on Radman's face indicate that he's anything but glad.

"The President has asked that you please escort one of our valued Capitol citizens to the ball."

This gives Finnick moment to pause. Escort? Valued Capitol citizen?

"Er… what do you mean?" he asks.

"Quite simple," Radman replies. "Greet her at the door, take her arm, enter side-by-side. When she's ready to leave, escort her out."

It does seem simple, but Finnick has a sneaking suspicion that there's an underlying motive here. He just can't figure out what it is, nor does he have the grounds to refuse.

"Who is she?"

"You'll be escorting Anjulia Lavalle, heiress to one of the biggest fortunes in the Capitol." Radman takes note of the young victor's expression, a combination of worry and hesitation, before adding, "She asked for you personally. She'll be delighted you're here."

As it turns out, she is. When Finnick greets Anjulia Lavalle, a platinum-blonde, rose-skinned woman at least ten years his senior, the smile that crosses her plastic face is almost frightening. Finnick knows she's rich just by looking at her – the amount of work she's had done on her body and its features is staggering.

"Ever since the last Hunger Games, I've wanted to meet you," she tells Finnick in her Capitol accent. "You and your golden hair and your beautiful smile. I just knew you were special."

Finnick isn't sure what she means, but he politely takes her arm and escorts her into the ballroom. He expects to recognize no one in there, and he doesn't, but everyone recognizes him. It seems that every time he finishes a conversation with an oddly-dressed Capitol citizen, another one appears, craving his attention. Anjulia has her own crowd of admirers – most likely those who have an interest in her fortune – but he notices that whenever another female approaches him to chat, Anjulia materializes and pops into the conversation, too. Almost as if she wants to monitor what's going on.

President Snow finally gets up to speak, and Anjulia whispers to Finnick how wonderful he looks for his old age. How regal. How brave.

Finnick can only compare him to a snake.

"Welcome to the launch of the 66th Annual Hunger Games," he says to his people, flashing them a snakelike grin. The crowd cheers. "It's the most exciting time of the year for Panem – the time when we select one male and one female from each of our twelve districts and ask them to fight to their deaths. This is to remind them that we are their Capitol, and we are a force to be reckoned with!"

Another uproarious cheer from the crowd. Finnick's eyes graze the unfamiliar faces as he gulps. Anjulia's green fingernails run possessively up and down his arm, making him want to squirm.

"We take their children and place them in the Arena to remind them of their rebellion. To remind them that they are at the mercy of the Capitol. And they shall not be forgiven for their indiscretions – not for a long, long while."

Snow takes a moment to let his words sink in to the mesmerized audience. Finnick swears that Snow's cold, soulless eyes are piercing into his own, as if it's _his_ fault that the thirteen original districts of Panem rebelled more than six decades ago. Finnick knows he's the only outsider here. He has the only ears for which Snow's words aren't intended.

"With that, let us enjoy the opening of this year's Games – knowing that it is not a tragedy that these children must die, but penitence."

From behind President Snow, a giant screen is lowered from the ceiling. It will broadcast the Hunger Games for the entire crowd to see.

Queasy, Finnick isn't sure how much longer he can stand upright. He isn't sure if he can watch the Games with these people – not now that he knows they have no sympathy. Even Anjulia whispers her excitement to him, hoping "the dream from District 8" lasts longer than a day for her viewing pleasure.

The screen illuminates to show all 24 tributes surrounding the golden Cornucopia, as always. Finnick looks for his tributes. They are spaced quite far apart from one another, looking strong.

Still, he can't watch. It's too horrible. Too devastating.

Claudius Templesmith's voice booms throughout the ballroom. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the 66th Annual Hunger Games begin!"

The next thing Finnick can remember, he's outside with Anjulia, bidding her farewell.

"It's too bad about the boy from District 8," she's telling him. "He had such a wonderful figure."

Finnick finds himself nodding.

She flashes him a grin. "You must be pleased that both of your tributes are still alive."

"What? Oh, yes," he replies, relief sweeping over him.

"I'm very glad you were able to join me today," she says to him, taking one of his hands in hers. "I do hope we can see each other again soon."

"That would be nice," Finnick agrees, though he has no intention of ever seeing Anjulia Lavalle again.

"Oh, you're so young," she coos, twirling a lock of his hair around her rose-tinged finger. "But I just can't resist."

Before he can get in another word, she kisses him squarely on the mouth. Shocked, he can only stand there until she pulls back, murmuring "Mm," and leans in to kiss him again.

It's wet and overpowering and she smells of artificial fruit.

When she finally pulls away, she squeezes his hand one last time and transfers something to him.

"Worth every penny," she says as she winks. Then she climbs into her vehicle and is driven away.

Finnick stands alone in front of the President's Mansion, wiping the flavouring off his lips that upsets his stomach so, and looks at what she's placed in his hand.

Money.

Finnick returns to the mentor's compound at the Training Center, carrying a heavy burden on his shoulders. He says hello to Mags but cannot elaborate further. He just needs to sleep. To be unconscious for a while.

And while the children in the Arena fight to their deaths, Finnick has his own tortured nightmares and wishes he'd died when he had the chance.

* * *

><p>On his first night back in District 4, having watched his tributes die gruesomely along with twenty-one other tributes since he was last there, he runs to his old home on the beach feeling changed. He removes his shoes, walks from the sand to the shore, and shreds the bills given to him by Anjulia Lavalle. He lets the sea take them away.<p>

What good is money when you can't live where you really want to live? What good is fame when you can't choose who, what and where you want to be? And what good is being a victor when you die in the Arena just like the other 23 tributes?

With an animalistic growl, he kicks the water. Nothing is what he'd expected it to be. It never gets better, it only gets worse. Every night he falls asleep thinking of Saskia's wide open eyes as his trident pierced through her chest. Every morning he awakes to his brother's hatred. And all day long, while he smiles and fakes confidence, his heart shrivels and turns grey, knowing that he's a monster. Knowing that no one could ever really love him. That no matter how many people surround him, he will always be alone, for the rest of his long, empty life.

He should have died in there. He should have died when he had the chance. The other tributes – the ones who die – they're the lucky ones.

There's a rustling behind him.

"Go away, Annie," he says on instinct, knowing that she will ignore him and come.

After a few moments of standing silently in the sea, he realizes that she has not approached. He turns to see a stray cat wandering across the stoop of his former house. Annie's not with him at all.

He glances at her house. The windows are dark. At this late hour, she and her mother are probably fast asleep, as they should be.

Suddenly, Finnick feels an urgency to see her. It's not enough to come back in the morning – he has to see her, hear her voice. And it has to be now.

After living beside the Crestas for fourteen years, Finnick knows which room belongs to Annie. He tiptoes past Poppy's room near the back door and rounds the corner, knowing Annie's bedroom to be at the front left of the house. Just tall enough to reach the bottom of the glass, he balls his hand into a fist and knocks very lightly.

Following a few attempts at light knocking, Annie's panic-stricken face appears at the window. As she looks down at Finnick, who looks back up at her with his hands humbly in the pockets of his shorts, her panic melts away into a feverish excitement. She tucks her chestnut brown hair behind her ears and fumbles with the lock at the window. When it's finally unlatched, she pushes it up and sticks her head out.

"Finn," she breathes. "I didn't know you were back."

He nods. "Got back today." He looks to his left and to his right. There's no one around. Training his gaze to Annie, he asks, "Can you come out?"

Annie lifts her window even higher so that she can crawl through. She's careful, and it isn't a far drop, but still he grabs her waist and lowers her to the sand. She spins around to face him. Her eyes are a bright green, deep and trusting and filled with concern. For a moment, he loses his words.

But Annie knows what to say. "It was horrible," she says, barely moving her lips. "I don't know how you could bear it."

He knows. It was _horrible_, and hearing it from her, a young, sweet girl of only thirteen, fills him with anger.

Voice cracking, he states with conviction, "You don't have to worry, Annie. I'm not going back there again."

He means that with every fiber of his being, even if it means stagnating in District 4 forever. Never does he want to see the bright lights or hear the vibrant noises of the Capitol again. He just wants silence. That's the only way he can put himself back together.

Whether or not she's convinced, Annie shows no uncertainties about him. She takes a step forward and wraps her skinny arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. Tension fills him, freezing him in place.

But he remembers where he is. Who he is with. And it goes unsaid – he can feel it in her touch – that no matter who he's become or what he's done to get there, to Annie, he is still the boy-next-door.

Just like, though she lives miles away from his stuffy, foreign house in the Victor's Village, she'll always be his neighbour-girl.

As he leans his cheek against her hair and places a steady hand on her back, he breathes in deeply. She smells not of artificiality or pretence, but of the salty sea that always brings him home.

* * *

><p><strong>Just want to thank you kids (again) for taking the time to read this story - especially those who review anonymously, because I'm not able to reply and thank you privately! From browsing through the archive, I can see that there are plenty of Finnick and Annie stories that attempt to fill in the blanks, so it means a lot that you're giving this one a chance :) <strong>

**I'll be back Sunday with another update, and I think (I _hope_) that you will be pleased that there will be more Annie occurrences in upcoming chapters!**


	6. the devil as he's talking

**Chapter 6:** _The 68__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

There are girls who come and go. They spark his interest for a moment or two, with sweet, seductive smiles that lead him to believe their intentions are innocent. They hold hands, frolic on the beach and kiss under the sycamore tree. Then they ask him about the Games or the Capitol or being interviewed on national television. They gaze upon him with wonder and awe, nuzzling close to him and remarking on his handsomeness or his strength. They show him off as if he's some sort of prize to be won.

Finnick expects nothing more from anyone. He even welcomes the company, though it is vapid and leaves him feeling empty. It's the girls who go, not he – for as soon as they recognize the vacant expression in his sea green eyes or hear the very little that he has to say, they realize he's not worth the trouble. Again and again, he's reminded that he is a living legend on the outside: strong, striking, and charming, but on the inside, he is hideous. Broken beyond repair.

The girls, they come and they go just as quickly. Still, it's only Annie's name he fervently wishes not to hear during the Reaping.

"Marigold Abnett," Marcocia's clear voice calls out.

His shoulders sink as the crowd begins to cheer. _Not Annie_. Someone must have heard his screaming pleas.

Finnick doesn't attend school anymore, in part because he was a distraction to his fellow classmates who were delighted to have a victor in their present and in part because he has difficulties focusing himself. Having too many things to do overwhelms him, as though he's losing the only control he has left. Most days, he visits Mags and she works with him on his studies. Her stern voice and concrete reasoning are the only things that can keep him engaged.

While he no longer sees Annie at school, he sometimes spots her down at the fish market. Mags insisted he resume his informal work there – she said it would help. And she's right. Roscoe Roe is happy (though he hides his happiness well) to take him on again, and every day for a few hours, Finnick channels all of his energy into being the bright, confident young boy he used to know. His sales records still top the charts.

He comes home exhausted from pretending to be someone else, but that's just as well, for sleeping at his home in the Victor's Village is the only way he can stand being there. Each day, Leander grows unhappier, craving his previous life as a fisherman. His old friends see him as a lucky bastard with more money than he knows what to do with. They surround him with attention in the hopes to reap the benefits of his fortune, but there's no real friendship there anymore. Finnick knows all too well how he feels. Dixie, on the other hand, thinks he should go to Mayor's Dinners. District Galas. They should live like the elites they've become.

"That's the only way we'll find happiness," she tells Finnick one day. "We have to live our lives as who we are and what we've become."

This comment terrifies Finnick, for he has searched, but cannot find happiness living as a victor. Nor can he find it if he faces the truth about himself.

It also serves to remind him that his parents are unhappy, and he is to blame.

He still catches Annie on the beach sometimes, on the evenings when he's tried to escape his family with sleep, only to be tormented by the Games in his dreams. She still joins him in the sand, careful not to wake her fragile mother. They sit together in silence until the sun peeks out over the sea.

* * *

><p>Another two dead. Another twenty-three, in total. The Games ended early this morning with an unexpected raid of mutt spiders the size of dogs. The final surviving tribute from District 2 was hoisted out of the arena with a spider attached to – and gnawing on – her leg.<p>

Suppressing dry heaves and impending panic, Finnick had fled to Mags' house, knowing that he would have a particularly awful day. Mags instructed him to soothe his mind someplace quiet – a place that made him feel safe and that he knew like the back of his hand. She coached him to focus on a mindless activity that came easily to him.

"They're not you," she'd told him firmly. "And you're not there. So live _here_. In the present. Don't fade away."

Still, as he sits tying knots at the beach, the hot sun beating down on his bare shoulders and the comforting sounds of the waves rolling in, he can feel himself drifting away. He gets this way sometimes, unable to enter the realm of reality. He feels his mind recede further and further until it's just blank. And sometimes, it's only in the blanket numbness that he can cope.

Mags tells him that most tributes experience similar post-traumatic stress symptoms. Sometimes they get better over the years, but sometimes they get worse.

"But you can fight it," she assures her youngest victor. "You're strong, Finnick, at mind and at heart. I know you want to come back to us; I can see it in your eyes when you're gone."

He loops the rope and pulls. Loops, and pulls. Over and over until his long legs, stretched out in front of him, are enmeshed in netting. And still he doesn't stop, not even when a human shadow falls over his day's work. He doesn't even have to check who's approached him. He already knows.

"That's a detailed net you have there," Annie remarks. She drops a bag in the sand beside him but keeps walking, barefoot, to the sea. As he continues to knot, Finnick watches her enter the ocean up to her knees and bend down to clean off her hands. Then she stands there, letting the water rush around her as she closes her eyes to meet the sun.

At fifteen, Annie is no longer the stick she once was. Her legs are long and lean, muscular from days spent trudging through the sand. Her arms are strong from swimming and her windswept hair extends nearly to her elbows. Finnick has noticed that there are curves where there were no curves before. As she turns and smiles at him from the water, he sees the delicate features on her face – her button nose, the friendly crinkles just outside her eyes.

She's quite beautiful, really. It's not the first time it's come to his attention, but it's impossible to ignore in the glistening sunlight.

When she joins him in the sand, she places the bag on her lap and digs inside. She produces an orange, holding it out to him.

He declines. "It's okay."

Trying again, she finds a bottle of water and offers it to him.

Again, he shakes his head.

"You sure?" she asks. "My mom said you've been out here since morning."

He doesn't argue, but replies, "I'm not hungry."

"Well, at least drink something."

If only to shut her up, he takes a sip from the bottle of water. A taste of the cool liquid alerts him to the fact that he's parched, and before he can help himself, he gulps down nearly half the bottle.

Annie smirks, saying nothing.

He resumes knotting. Annie leaves the bottle of water beside him, just in case, and begins to brush off her feet, which have collected sand since her wade in the sea. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, focusing on the here and now, as Mags instructed. It's easier to do so with Annie than without, he realizes. She's the one thing that stayed the same before and after the Games.

"That's a good net," she observes, reaching over to examine his intricate, mindless work. "It's strong. Where'd you learn to knot so well?"

"From you," he replies simply.

This surprises her. "Really?"

He nods. "When we were young."

Evidently, she doesn't remember. She giggles. "We're still young."

Swallowing, he says, "I feel very old."

Annie doesn't reply, and he knows he's made her feel sorry for saying anything. It wasn't his intention.

On a whim, he adds, "It's why I'm still here, you know. It's what saved my life in the Arena."

She's reluctant to take his word for it. "The trident saved your life."

"The trident was what I used to kill," he agrees, surprised he's able to speak about it so openly, "but it can't be launched through the woods or hurled from a distance. I needed the net to trap my victims. And I wouldn't have known – wouldn't have been able to do it if you hadn't taught me."

He feels Annie's eyes on him, studying him with sincerity. "Well, then," she says quietly, "I don't regret it."

He meets her gaze, seeing a reflection of his own clear green eyes in hers. Aside from Mags, she's the only one he's never questioned in his mind. The only one he knows to be true.

But why? Why does she bother with him when he's so cold, so lost, so un-repairable? When he's done everything in the world not to deserve her company?

"Why do you sit with me?" he can't help but ask. "Why do you sit here when you know there are other girls?"

She must know about the girls. They fawn over him in District 4, begging for a minute of his time, a fraction of his attention. And Finnick was raised to never disappoint.

Annie lowers her eyes. Calmly, she answers, "Why do you ask, when you know there are no other boys?"

He bites the inside of his lip, considering her words. She's right. There has never been anyone else for Annie Cresta. Still, he doesn't know why.

Abandoning the net in his lap, he brings a knee to his chest, steadying his opposite hand in the sand. Wetting his lips, he reaches over, catching her chin with his index finger and tilting it up so that they are eye to eye.

"Because I have to know," he replies.

He kisses her then, sliding his hand from her chin into her hair. Her lips are soft and full, and they part with such eagerness as she wraps her hand around his wrist, begging him not to let go. With Annie, he knows to be tender and fragile, and she knows him just as well.

When they part, he opens his eyes slowly with a gulp, brushing her hair behind her ear.

"I can't help it," is Annie's reply to his question, every word spilling with emotion. "I knew you before, and I want to know you after. I want to know you forever."

He nods and presses his forehead to hers. The word 'forever' sounds so sweet and inviting rolling off someone else's tongue. She's too genuine to be telling a lie.

He brushes her lips lightly, feeling her tremble under his touch.

"Okay," he murmurs in agreement. "Then you will."

* * *

><p>Netting trails behind him on the ground. Finnick drags his feet on the way home, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He's dazed, but he doesn't feel so far-gone today. Today, he's been revived by the scrawny little neighbour-girl who wants to spend forever with him.<p>

It's as though the heavens have opened. Finnick relishes the sight of the deep blue sky as he wanders home, remembering how Saskia compared it to the grey haze of the Capitol. She was right. The skies of District 4 are brilliant by comparison, stretched and open and bursting with colour.

Annie's kiss lingers on his lips even as he enters the front door of his house in the Victor's Village. Dixie bristles as he enters, and before he can say hello, a hefty figure appears in the doorway of the kitchen.

Radman.

Fear plunges its stake into his heart, and he deflates like a balloon. "What's going on?" he asks.

Struggling to remain calm, Dixie says, "Come to the kitchen, please, Finnick."

He does so with wary footsteps, sensing that something's not right. The President sending his henchman for a visit can't be a good sign.

Fletcher is waiting for him, too, his arms folded across his chest and his grey eyes hard and cold.

"Where's dad?" Finnick asks. Leander should be here. He wouldn't leave his family with this man if he had a choice.

"Oh, he's fishing," Dixie replies, her nerves causing a tremble in her voice. "Hasn't come home yet."

"You've been out quite a while, Mr. Odair," Radman remarks, his lips curling into an icy smile. "Must have had something important to attend to? Something to keep your attention for so many hours?"

The tendons in Finnick's arms tense, the veins in his forearms enlarging as he clenches his fists. What could Radman know?

"At first, your family mentioned that you were fishing with your father. I suppose that can't have been the case, given that you were unaware of his whereabouts."

Finnick says nothing. He can feel Fletcher's anger emanating from his spot in the corner, as if it's Finnick's fault that this gargantuan messenger of the President has invaded their home.

"No matter," Radman says coolly, his eyes trained to the young victor. He clears his throat. "Mr. Odair, President Snow has requested your presence in the Capitol."

Suppressing a growl, Finnick returns, "Why?"

"I believe it's a private matter."

Finnick gestures to the kitchen. "And I believe this is a private home."

Radman's eyes narrow. "Be that as it may, Mr. Odair, I'm afraid I'm under strict orders not to give details."

Standing tall, Finnick broadens his chest and answers with a confidence he does not possess. "Then I'm afraid I'll be staying here."

Dixie takes a shaky breath, unable to handle the intensity in her kitchen.

Radman nods slowly, a twitch in his eye. "I see. Mr. Odair – Finnick – are you aware of what happens to those who defy the Capitol's orders?"

The Capitol has all sorts of punishments up its sleeve. He thinks of his own Games and the one following in which he was a mentor – the Avoxes were the ones made to wait on mentors and tributes alike. The punishment for treason or any crime against the Capitol was to have one's tongue removed and forever live as a servant.

Though he has little use for words these days, the thought still sends a shiver up his spine.

"I thought you said it was a request," is his only reply.

With a derisive smile, Radman says, "Perhaps you'll keep in mind for the future that a request from the President is an order."

"Oh, Finnick," Dixie says, placing a hand on his shoulder, "go with him. You adore the Capitol."

"And the Capitol adores you, Mr. Odair," Radman adds.

He looks to Fletcher. His elder brother wears his rage the way others wear a t-shirt: his disdain for Finnick is smeared across his face, apparent even in his stance.

He knows he has no choice. There is no place he can hide. Even his family wants him gone.

Licking his lips in defeat, Finnick keeps his voice firm as he concedes, "Fine. Let me go get my things."

"No need. We'll have everything you need in the Capitol," Radman brushes him off.

He knows he is under close surveillance now, after proving that he has no wish to return to the Capitol. Radman won't let him out of his sight.

"Then I should go across the street and let Mags know."

"I'm afraid there's no time. We must leave now."

This confirms it.

Glaring at Radman, he asks defiantly, "And what about my father?"

Unimpressed, Radman gestures to Dixie. "I'm sure your mother will be kind enough to inform him when he arrives."

Dixie nods fervently, her compliance dripping with desperation. Still, Finnick hesitates.

Radman cracks his knuckles, losing his patience. "It's not as though you'll never see him again. Mr. Odair, we've really lost an awful lot of time."

"Go, sweetheart," Dixie tells him, pulling him in for a kiss on the cheek and a hug around the neck. "We'll see you soon. Everything will be all right around here."

Through the kitchen window, Finnick sees a hoverplane in the meadow beyond the Victor's Village. That will be his method of transportation to the Capitol. They really do intend on a quick shipment.

With one last glance inside before he leaves through the back door, Finnick locks eyes with Fletcher. He's crossed the kitchen to place a comforting arm around their shaken mother and glares at Finnick with the utmost loathing. As if Finnick has done something wrong.

As if he chose all of this.

* * *

><p>Desmeretta, as it turns out, awaits him in the hoverplane. As they fly at high speed to the Capitol, she and a small prep team begin their work on Finnick. The idea is to shape him up for a magnificent party. A party commemorating the end of another successful Hunger Games.<p>

"It's s-so much more exciting for Panem when former victors gather to c-celebrate in the Capitol," says Oslo Busby. Oslo, like Radman, acts on behalf of President Snow – but unlike Radman, he's a rather small bespectacled man, pudgy and stuttering. Finnick would like him under other circumstances. "All the important figures of the Games will be there, except for the victor, of course. C-Caesar Flickerman, Claudius Templesmith, the gamemakers… and I'm s-sure you'll recognize s-some of the previous victors."

"And why do I have to go?" Finnick asks as a prep team buzzes around him, whispering comments to one another on how to fix him up.

"It's a televised event," Oslo replies. "You've been highly requested in the Capitol by your fans. S-seems Panem has become quite attached to you. One of our youngest victors. S-so charming to them."

On his way out of Finnick's prep room, he turns with one last comment for the victor. "It's a joyous event," he adds, "s-so remember to s-smile."

Once he's left alone with his prep team and they begin to fiddle with his hair, Finnick looks to Desmeretta for answers. "What's going on? Why am I here?"

A member of the prep team applies a cool, wet cloth to his face. Impatiently, Finnick swats at her hand, ripping the cloth away. Desmeretta approaches him with a dry towel.

While she pats his face dry, she leans in very close, whispering so quietly he can barely hear. "They didn't like the spiders."

He frowns. "The spiders?"

"Shh," she hisses. "You saw end of the Games this morning?"

He nods.

"The spiders," she repeats. "They think the District 5 tribute should have won. He was the strongest. He had the plan to kill the rest with explosives. And he had that adorable girlfriend waiting for him back home. The Capitol loves stuff like that."

"So?" Finnick whispers. He knows that the Capitol also loves a good bloodbath.

"The spiders killed him first," she says, lightly patting his forehead with the towel. "They went straight for him. Then they killed the others. There was no final confrontation; no chance for a victor to shine. There's word going around the districts that the Games were rigged – that the tribute from District 2 didn't win fair and square."

"How do you know that?"

"Spies," she replies simply.

He thinks of Annie's father. Is he reporting this material back to the President?

"The head gamemaker will be killed," she continues, no longer using the towel on his face. She leans in even further, her lips brushing his ear as she speaks. "They need you to appear at the closing ceremony. To act like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. You'll repair the damage – you and previous victors will legitimize this year's victor."

"We're saying it's all right," he says, dread washing over him. It's his job to convince Panem that the Capitol is good. That sacrificing their children, no matter in what order, is okay.

With a knowing look, Desmeretta nods. "It's all right."

* * *

><p>Finnick is unsure whether other victors have the information that he does, but they are all propelled into the 68th Annual Hunger Games Closing Celebration looking their finest and feigning smiles. Though his black pants and pale blue collared shirt are too tight, Desmeretta has assured him that they won't restrict his movements and that they show off his finest features. She's rolled up the cuffs of his sleeves to give him a relaxed look, sure to mention to him that Capitol women find his naturally tanned skin quite alluring and it's important to show it off.<p>

As promised, many of the faces Finnick knows to be associated with the Hunger Games are present. Claudius Templesmith, the Games' announcer, seems to know every face in the crowd and makes his way around the ballroom to greet the guests. Haymitch Abernathy, District 12's sole victor, stumbles around the ballroom in a drunken stupor, cheering whenever a server passes by with a platter of drinks. Chaff, a well-known handless victor from District 11, comments in a brief interview onstage with Caesar Flickerman that the spiders were a total surprise – the remaining tributes didn't know how to react. It was just luck on the part of the victor.

The celebration spares no expense, and Finnick senses that it's more upbeat than usual. On purpose, he wonders? He'd like nothing more than to speak with fellow victors to gather their perceptions, but he's never given the chance – Capitol women seem to swarm him, their brightly-coloured hair and outrageous clothing overwhelming him. They want to know where he's been, if he's missed the Capitol, how his skin is so beautifully tan, if he has a girl back home.

It's odd to think that just hours ago, he was with Annie. It seems so long ago. So far away.

Anjulia Lavalle is there again. Finnick's stomach flips when she approaches him and plants a kiss on his jaw line. She still stinks of artificial flavouring.

"Older and more handsome than ever," she murmurs in his ear. "I'll have my way with you tonight."

And then she leaves him, bewildered and mobbed by near-drooling females, to puzzle over her words.

He's able to pry himself from his "fans" when he notices a gamemaker walk by.

"Mr. Crane," he calls, jogging a few steps to distance himself from his followers. "Mr. Crane, please."

The man turns, his facial hair trimmed in intricate and odd patterns. He gives Finnick a relaxed smile. "Mr. Odair," he replies, holding out his hand to shake. "Call me Seneca, please."

"Finnick," Finnick affirms with a nod. "Do you have a moment?"

"For a victor? Always."

Seneca Crane is young for a gamemaker, but there's a cruel wisdom behind his eyes that keeps Finnick on edge.

"I was just wondering… the spiders. Were they always in the plan?"

Seneca cocks an eyebrow. "The plan?"

"Well, as a gamemaker, it's just… is everything set before the Games even begin? Or are new ideas developed along the way?"

Warily, the gamemaker replies, "The plan is always set. Each Games is unique and thoroughly developed. But of course, as you know, things in the Arena can change in an instant… adaptability is a must."

Finnick is about to ask another pressing question when Seneca shifts his eyes around the room and steps towards him, keeping his voice low.

"You should know," he says ominously, "that the position of head gamemaker is now up for grabs due to what happened in the Arena. You're young and not accustomed to Capitol politics – but speaking of this now is foolish. I suggest you return to your women, do what you do best, and let the gamemakers worry about the spiders."

Unsure of how to respond, Finnick can only nod. He could be insulted by the man's arrogance, but instead, Finnick feels a shred of gratitude – the way Seneca grazed the room for watchful eyes before speaking so frankly with Finnick lets him believe that the gamemaker had his best interests in mind.

Caesar Flickerman calls him up shortly thereafter for a brief interview. He asks the same general questions Finnick has been answering all evening long. Bored, Finnick looks out into the audience as he speaks, noticing Anjulia Lavalle in serious conversation with Oslo Busby. Curious.

"And which tribute were you rooting for this year, Finnick?" Caesar asks him.

That's a new question. A trick question, too, Finnick thinks. He can't be too obvious.

"My District 4 tributes, of course," he replies with ease. "We do still have a couple of luxury houses up for grabs in our Victor's Village. Would be nice to fill up the neighbourhood."

The audience laughs.

"Although I'm looking forward to welcoming District 2's victor to our mentor circle," he's quick to add. "She's very pretty. Wily, too."

"Very pretty?" Flickerman repeats with a sly grin. "Could our Finnick Odair have a crush?"

"It's hard to say," he answers, realizing that his female audience is waiting on his response with bated breath. Knowing he's expected to appease them, he continues, "There are so many beautiful women here tonight."

There's a collective, dreamy sigh from the crowd and a pleased expression on the face of Oslo Busby. Finnick knows he's done his job.

At the end of the night, as the crowd is thinning and Finnick is so tired, he's afraid he might just keel over, Oslo approaches him for the last time.

"Wonderful you could join us, Mr. Odair," he states. "Now, for one last task…"

"Task?" Finnick asks weakly.

"Ms. Lavalle is in need of an escort home," he says. "S-she's requested your s-services s-specifically."

Finnick feels himself sinking. "Is there no one else?" he asks, his voice pleading. "It's been such a long day."

"I'm afraid not," Oslo says, though his expression conveys no apology whatsoever. "You've made quite an impression on her."

With a heavy heart, Finnick makes his way across the marbled floors of the grand ballroom and allows Anjulia to link her arm through his. She nuzzles up to him as a chauffeured vehicle brings them to her residence.

"I'd like to show you around," she says to him.

He follows her inside – despite his weariness, he's still a boy, suspicious but intrigued by the riches and glamour of the Capitol.

Anjulia's house is truly exquisite – five times the size of his house in the Victor's Village. From the massive pillars just outside the doorway to the grand staircase with intricately-carved, polished wooden railings, Finnick is entranced.

"Like what you see?" she asks, biting her lip.

He nods. "It's amazing."

"Good," she says, taking his hand and pulling him towards her. She releases a pin in her yellow hair, letting it cascade over her shoulders and onto her pink-tinged skin. Grasping his tie in her hands, she breathes, "I've waited so long for you."

Before Finnick can respond, she smothers his lips in a kiss. Her overpowering scent nearly chokes him.

Breaking apart, she frantically loosens his tie, continuing, "And tonight I finally have you. You're mine."

He's hers?  
>Frustrated after a few seconds with the tie, Anjulia groans and pulls him in again for another hot kiss.<p>

"I could have anyone," she gasps, "anyone at all. But I like holding out for the special ones." Releasing an animalistic growl, she rips at a few buttons on Finnick's shirt and adds, "There's something so sexy about a poor district boy in love with the shining lights of the Capitol."

She grinds against him as they kiss. Adrenaline pumps through his body, which responds to Anjulia's advances even though he begs it not to.

"Though you're not such a poor boy anymore, are you?"

"Not so much," he replies, eliciting a giggle from the colourful Capitol woman.

Anjulia wraps her arms around him, attaching her lips to his neck and sucking. He gulps. Shuts his eyes tight.

"Oh, tell me you want me," she says between breaths. "Tell me I'm your only one."

His only one. There's never been only one.

While his body betrays him, he wonders if, far away in District 4, Annie is waiting for him in the sand.

* * *

><p>Early in the morning, Radman awakens him with urgency. Eyes crusty with sleep, he splashes his face with water and throws on the clothes provided for him. His prep team is nowhere in sight, and he wonders where it is he's being escorted to so early that doesn't require a makeover.<p>

It isn't long before he finds out. Without a bite to eat, Finnick is shown into the board room adjacent to his suite. There, President Snow awaits him. Weak-kneed, Finnick sits across the table from the stone-faced president. Radman leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

The air is thick with anticipation and dread as Snow folds his hands on the table and flashes the victor a cold smile.

"Splendid of you to make an appearance yesterday evening, Mr. Odair," Snow says. "You've been sought-after since your last visit to the Capitol, as I'm sure you know."

Finnick nods, his body stiff.

"Too bad, of course, that the evening was sullied by your visit with Ms. Lavalle." Finnick keeps his eyes level, and Snow continues, "Oh yes, she informed me this morning that despite her persuasions, you were unwilling to enjoy her company."

Finnick knows what Snow means by 'enjoy her company'. A whiff of Anjulia's perfume shoots up his nostrils by memory, and he coughs in disgust. When her intentions became clear to him, he couldn't go through with it. He wouldn't be bought and sold like a slave. He didn't _belong_ to anyone, not even for a night.

"As heiress to a large sum of money, Ms. Lavalle has been integral in the support of many Capitol programs," Snow goes on. "Updated textbooks for our schoolchildren, research grants to our medical system, a huge sponsor to our Hunger Games – one of _your _sponsors, you know."

Finnick remains stoic.

"She was fairly disappointed, after paying for your services, that you were unable to provide for her."

Money? He'd received money from Anjulia before, but not last night. Whom had she _paid_ for his body? To whom did he now belong? The Capitol?

"The life of a victor is very privileged," Snow finishes. "You have many things for which to be grateful. However, it does not mean you're without responsibilities." Tipping his head to eye Finnick carefully, he adds, "You'll do well to remember that in the future."

Finnick's teeth are clenched so hard, he's afraid his jaw might wire shut or the teeth themselves will disintegrate. It's clear now what the Capitol wants from him: the utmost humiliation.

The President leans back in his chair, looking out the window to the busy Capitol streets. "With that said, I do have some rather unfortunate news, Mr. Odair."

Finnick's eyebrows raise. He's unsure that anything could be more unfortunate than what he's just heard.

Snow's voice is apathetic. "It's your father, I'm afraid. He was killed this morning. Boating accident, reports say."

All of a sudden, it's as if Finnick's entire body has slackened. He no longer has control over his legs, his arms, his jaw. His head hangs. This can't be coincidence. It's too cold; too convenient.

His father. Dead?

"A pity you aren't there to grieve with your family," Snow remarks. "Although given the circumstances, we should be thankful that no one else was injured. Your mother, for instance. Your brother. Little Annie Cresta."

Finnick's head snaps up, fire igniting in his heart. How does he know that name? He knows now it was no coincidence. Somehow, in the early hours of the morning, his father was murdered by order of the Capitol.

He was never given a chance to say goodbye.

"That will be all, Mr. Odair," Snow says, and with a dismissal of his hand, he invites Finnick to leave the room. It's as though they've just had a business meeting, not as if Finnick's entire life was sent spinning. With one final glance at the boy he now owns, Snow adds, "You may want to consider the implications of your choices upon your next visit."

* * *

><p><strong>Can't have sweet without sour, right? Just another step towards our Finnick's cruel loss of innocence.<strong>

**Thanks for all your comments so far! I'm trying to keep up with my Thursday-Sunday posting schedule but I'm afraid that in a couple of weeks I might catch up to myself. For now, I'll see you Thursday!**


	7. the tightrope that i'm walking

**Chapter 7:** _69__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

Damellys is a sweet, soft-spoken woman who dresses fairly conservatively for a Capitol girl. Though he's been with her before, her wildness in the bedroom still surprises him. When she's not tying him up with belts or scarves, she prefers to face away from him, and that comes as a relief. When he's with Damellys, he's free to drift off, shut his eyes tightly or stare blankly at the wall ahead. He knows now how to remove his mind from the situation. One moment he's there, and the next he's far away, fishing with his father on the beach behind their old home or playing Kick-The-Ball with his school friends. Sometimes, when his eyes cloud over and he fades away, Annie slips into his thoughts. Little Annie Cresta, the neighbour-girl who wants to know him forever.

At least, she _did_. He's barely seen her since his father's memorial service. When he sees her in the market, he busies himself with another customer. If he passes her on the streets, he pretends not to see her. Sometimes he wishes she would seek him out, but she doesn't. He knows it's better this way. He can't face her. Not this time.

He doesn't visit his family home in District 4 anymore. Memories of his father are everywhere – in the wooden steps he built with Fletcher, in the shingles on the roof, in the sea itself. And the thought of seeing Annie – having to admit to her what he's become after the honest moments they shared – is unbearable.

So when the nightmares visit him at night, sending him into thrashing fits and jolting him awake, covered in sweat and sometimes, tears, he forces himself to stay put. He can't run away when his safe place has become what he's running from.

Annie must despise him for his betrayals. He doesn't doubt it. But he knows that if she hates him, it can't be anywhere near as much as he hates himself.

Damellys releases a final moan and then disengages herself from Finnick's body. He runs a hand through his mussed-up bronze hair and returns a deep kiss.

"Well worth the money," she says, winking as she reaches for her wallet on the nightstand. "You're to die for, Finnick Odair."

He delivers her a blank stare. If only she knew.

* * *

><p>In the Capitol, the nightmares are twice as bad – especially when he's visiting during the Games. He shuts his eyes knowing he's unsafe. At any moment, one of Snow's henchmen could come knocking with another paying customer in waiting. And when he does sleep, he sleeps restlessly, visited by all the faces of those who terrify him most.<p>

The recognition in Saskia's face before he plunges a trident into her chest. Anjulia's wild eyes as she bites into him. Radman's lips curled into a heartless smile as he comes to collect Finnick for another lady. Fletcher's cold, unflinching gaze, despising his younger brother for everything that he is and is not. Damellys and her scarves, binding him to this life he's never chosen. Seneca Crane, the new head gamemaker, sitting in a dull-lit room behind several screens with a panel of buttons and a slew of new, interesting ways to kill his victims. His father, fishing alone, disbanded from his fishermen friends, surrounded by Capitol men who convict and execute him for a crime committed by his son. His mother, who will never know the truth of his murder. Snow's eyes, laughing all on their own, wielding Finnick on strings like a puppet.

And Annie. She invades his dreams quietly, and it isn't until she's seen what he's done, viewed the faces of those he's killed and those who own him, that he finds her there, repulsed, horrified, and utterly afraid of him. Then Snow swoops in again, taking Annie with him.

That's when he wakes, covered in sweat and reeking of fear, voice hoarse from yelling her name.

* * *

><p>He's had five trips to the Capitol in a year. Sometimes, the trips are merely to make a dent in the line of women President Snow and his advisors have set up. Others, he attends public events. Gives interviews. Poses for photo shoots. Even takes a pro-Capitol stance at political functions.<p>

Walking down the polished streets of the Capitol, there are billboards with his face. His barely-clothed body. Even in the districts, it's impossible to turn on the television without seeing one of his ads. There's not a soul in Panem who doesn't know the name Finnick Odair. There's not a woman who doesn't bat her eyes at the sight of him or swoon at the sound of his melodic voice.

"A charmed life," Roscoe Roe always says to him. "World won't never get in your way, but here you are, in my rotting booth at the fish market."

A charmed life, indeed. To the world, it's a success story. Fisherman's son uses skills and tools from generous sponsors to win the Hunger Games and basks triumphantly in good looks and fortune. More alive than ever.

In truth, he's more of a dead man than Leander Odair, who lies six feet underground. And still, he's not dead enough for Snow.

* * *

><p>Radman calls on him in the night time. He dresses blindly in the dark, knowing that whatever he wears will be quickly dismissed and discarded.<p>

"You're gonna like this one," Radman tells him, baring his teeth – almost sharp – as he smiles.

Finnick, whose weary spark barely elicits a flicker, says nothing.

Radman adds, "She's just your type."

He leads Finnick down the carpeted hallway and into the elevator. After pressing a button, they shoot upwards, probably to the top floor, where there's a luxurious, private suite for the most clandestine of tasks.

Radman unlocks the door using a set of keys attached to his belt. He holds it open for Finnick, who walks through without a second glance at his escort.

"You know the drill," Radman says from behind him. Then he shuts the door, leaving Finnick alone.

A king-sized bed is the centerpiece of the room, book-ended with nightstands carrying small, dimly-lit lamps. The far wall is nothing but glass, overlooking the bustling Capitol itself. There's also a sofa facing an enormous television screen hung over a fireplace – very cozy, indeed.

As he walks deeper into the suite, Finnick only feels cold. A shiver races through him as he dreads his next task. Who will she be? The daughter of a conniving politician? A wealthy middle-aged bag?

"Hi, Finn," says a sultry voice from behind him. He pauses, recognizing the voice.

Spinning around, he spots Marcocia Duterre sauntering through a connecting door in the suite. His shoulders sag with relief.

Until he realizes she is wearing nothing but a thin silk robe and a seductive smile. She approaches him with a frightening gleam in her eye, handing him a glass and pouring him some champagne.

"Marcocia," he breathes, his voice shaky. It can't be. Not his own escort.

She shrugs, her inflated lips forming a pout. "Couldn't let everyone else have all the fun, could I?"

He feels himself crumbling.

"If I'm selling you, I have to know what I'm selling, don't I? A product must be tried and tested." She takes a sip of her drink. "You know I've always had my eye on you."

In turn, Finnick downs his entire glass. All the alcohol in the world won't be enough.

"You have such strong arms," she comments, running her long, painted nails up and down his bicep. Another shiver, unrelated to the cold, travels through him.

"Such golden hair," she continues, tangling her fingers through it.

He gulps, staring at her with the hint of a frown.

"Such beautiful, clear eyes," she finishes.

With that, her pouted lips are on his, and Finnick feels lost in their enormity. They're unnatural. Marcocia must be forty, but looks twenty-five. She was his escort to the Games. The escort to what was supposed to be his death.

And now she is robbing him of everything he has left.

How can he mentor in the Games after this? How can he face her when she's paid to strip him of his dignity?

She runs her nails under his shirt and over his skin, tracing the muscles in his back.

He breaks the kiss, turning his head to the side to avoid another repulsive encounter with her fish-lips.

"I can't," he croaks. She must have some sympathy for him. Somewhere inside of her, she _must_.

Marcocia takes a step back, and he watches, frozen, as she removes the silk belt that holds her robe in place. She shrugs her shoulders and the robe falls to the floor. Her breasts are too big, her waist too small. Inside and out, she is distorted.

"You know," she tells him matter-of-factly, "you're not the only sex symbol in Panem."

His palms are clammy, his throat dry. He's sure if he speaks, he'll be sick.

When her hands are on him again, it's all he can do to close his eyes and let it happen. And when his bare skin is pressed against the plastic of Marcocia's body, all he can think of is her figure in front of the Mayor's Building in District 4, calling little children up to die.

* * *

><p>When he is returned to his room after a hot shower, he's still trembling. She knew him. She <em>knew<em> him. She wasn't just a rich Capitol elite looking for excitement or political gain – she was his escort. She knew where he was from, had been to his home, spoken to his parents. She'd watched him survive the Games at the age of fourteen and knew how it had changed him. Destroyed him.

And still she violated him.

In the privacy of his own room, he sinks into the chair facing the window. He hunches over his knees and buries his face in his hands. They say he's got a charming smile. Friendly, but daring eyes that sometimes glaze with mystery. Bronzed skin, kissed by the sun. He's beautiful, flawless, made by the gods.

But he knows how ugly he truly is. They flock to him, but they only want his body, one smile from him that's meant only for them. Nobody cares to stay longer than a fleeting smile or a brush of the lips. For when they get too close and see too much, they realize his imperfections are vast. His glossed coating is thick, but inside it hides a hideous man with a black, shrivelled heart.

At dawn, the door to his room opens quietly. He believes it to be an Avox, a servant without a tongue, here to make his bed or bring him breakfast. Still, he is hunched over in his chair. He intends to stay that way, unable to face even the most treasonous figures of the Capitol. His shame is too broad; his misery too deep.

In the quiet, a hand befalls his shoulder. He recoils, swatting it away and crying, "Don't touch me!"

Cheeks streaked with bitter tears, he unwillingly meets the face of his disturber.

Mags.

He holds her gaze until he can't anymore, until his shaky breaths force him to release a sob. He rakes his fingers through his hair, hanging his head.

"I can't—" he begins, choked with another sob. His stomach aches from heaving. His shoulders are sore from shaking. His insides are grey with age and abuse. He's wrecked.

"I hate this place," he breathes, not protesting as Mags drags a chair to sit next to him.

She reaches out a tentative hand to pat his head, leaning her cane against the chair. When he doesn't react violently, she scoots closer, placing her arm around his shoulder. He tries to take a steady breath, but dissolves again in tears.

"My boy," Mags says to him, and it reminds him of his mother's tenderness. "Let it go."

Leaning his head on her shoulder, Finnick does just as she instructed. He lets go, weeping openly for the first time. His chest is wracked with sobs that rise painfully through his throat. Tears spill from his eyes, staining Mags' blue cardigan. He cries until he can't anymore. Until he is empty.

And when an Avox steps lightly into the room to bring him a warm mug of tea and a box of tissues, he sees a kindness in her eyes that puzzles him. How can she be good and kind when they've taken everything from her? When they've turned her into _this_?

He, too, has been stripped of everything, but he knows there is no real kindness in his eyes. There is only anger, despair, and loneliness.

Mags sends him to bed and sits beside him on her chair, holding onto his hand.

"Oh, my dear," she says lovingly. "You're so strong. Even after all they've put you through."

Brows furrowed, he asks in his cracked voice, "Then why do I hurt so much?"

She leans forward, brushing stray hairs from his forehead. "Because you're still human. You still _feel_. And that, boy, makes you stronger than any victor – any tribute – I've ever heard of."

The wall is patterned with roses and thorns, and he stares at it bleakly.

"Sleep," she insists. "I'll watch over you."

He's unsure if he'll ever sleep again, so he asks, "What about your tributes?"

"Oh," she replies, giving his hand a light squeeze, "we lost the second one in the night. Don't start, Finnick."

He gives a light shake of his head at the injustice of it all, but is too weary to protest. He shuts his eyes.

Mags adds softly, "It's better this way. They were nowhere near as brave as you."

* * *

><p>Back in District 4, Dixie carries on. She's terribly heartbroken, and Finnick sometimes hears her cry herself to sleep, but she truly believes Leander's death was an accident. He can't bring himself to tell her the truth.<p>

"He'd be so proud of you, Finn," she tells him sometimes, gently stroking his hair. "You gave so much to this family."

Her words are painful. He knows he's despicable. Knows his father hated living in the Victor's Village and spent the last few years of his life wishing nothing had ever changed. If Finnick had died in the Arena, they could have kept their family home. If Finnick had died, Leander would still be alive.

Fletcher, who carries on their father's legacy at the wharf, is much cleverer than Dixie. He has his suspicions. He barely speaks to his brother anymore, and even then, it's only to ask essential questions. Finnick deserves the hatred from his brother – he knows now that Fletcher was right to hate him all along – but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt him just the same.

The only one he trusts to love him unconditionally is Mags, and that's only because, just like him, she is despicable. They are both Hunger Games victors, sharing a bond that no other citizen of Panem ever could.

It's impossible to win the Games a good person. Finnick believes that now with every shredded piece of his tattered heart.

Mags knows about his nightmares, especially after their most recent trip to the Capitol together for the Games – her as mentor, he as prostitute. The walls of their separate rooms were too thin; she heard him calling out in the night. His secrets have become hers.

Finnick visits her during the daytime, just to give her company, and she sees the circles under his eyes and gets to work brewing him a cup of tea. When he's not looking, she infuses the tea with herbs to help him fall asleep.

"It's not right for a person to be so misused," she tells him sternly, trying to build up his self-worth. "In the world I was born into, no one was so broken. I'm older than the Games, you know. I remember when children weren't pitted against each other for sport. Now, the world is ugly and evil down to its core."

She brings the mug to him on the sofa and makes him look her in the eye.

"This was never your destiny, Finnick. Know that. You were made for so much more."

"I wish I could believe that," he says bleakly, for he knows that this hell is the punishment he deserves.

"If you were never reaped, you'd be…" she trails off, ignoring his pessimism.

He replies, "A fisherman." He'd so despised the idea as a young boy, but now, it seems like the greatest occupation the world has ever known.

"No," she shakes her head, "though no doubt you'd make a great one. No, that's not what you truly want. What would you be, if you had no limitations?"

Although she's only dreaming up ways to distract him, he leans his head back on the couch cushion and seriously ponders her question. "A Kick-The-Ball player in the Capitol," he answers. "I've heard there are professional teams there. People play the game for a _living_. Can you imagine that?"

"No," Mags says with a light chuckle. "It seems too good to be true. And right up your alley. You're very coordinated."

He's only taken a few sips, but he feels the herbs of the tea kicking in. Eyelids fluttering, he adds, "I was always picked first at school. Everyone knows I'm the fastest. It just comes easy to me."

"As do the snippets of arrogance," she says in amusement.

His head lolls to the side. "The best feeling in the world is running so hard, you think your lungs are going to burst. When your bones are screaming and your muscles are on fire."

He hasn't felt so alive in a long, long time. He's not sure he even truly remembers the feeling. Maybe he's just imagining its existence.

"I'd be the best player in the Capitol," Finnick goes on, pausing to yawn. "Everyone would buy tickets just to see me play. I'd sign autographs for fans and teach little kids the game."

Sitting in the armchair just across from him, Mags smiles. "That sounds just like you."

"And when I got too old to run anymore," he finishes, sinking into the couch, "I'd find the woman I loved. We'd get married and live by the sea. Our kids would hate fishing, but we'd make them learn to net out of ropes and nylon. They'd learn how to fish so we'd know they'd always be able to feed themselves – but we'd let them do whatever they wanted to do when they grew up. As long as they were happy."

He drifts to sleep on Mags' couch, for once, with pleasant thoughts.

* * *

><p>He awakes after a nightmare. This one is less powerful than the others, but still wakes him with a jolt. Snow's sinister eyes always do.<p>

Hair sticks to his forehead, slick with sweat. He manages a dry gulp as he assesses his surroundings. Realizing he's not at home, he sits up straight, blood rushing to his head. With a grunt of pain, he brings his hand to his face, applying pressure to ease the throbbing.

"Drink this. He's awake – I'll be right back."

He remembers his afternoon visit to Mags' house. She put special herbs in his tea to send him to sleep. He must still be with her.

When the pounding in his head has ceased, he removes the hand from his face and opens his eyes carefully. Crouching in front of him is a girl. A girl with thick, flowing hair and worried creases in her brow.

"Annie?" he croaks, barely believing what he's seeing.

She nods, placing a hand on his knee. "You were dreaming. You were crying out, kicking… are you okay?"

Though he sees Mags a few yards away in her kitchen, he has to ask himself whether he's still asleep. Annie's face is so clear in front of him, so fraught with concern, and he can feel her touch. But how can it be real?

"Annie?" he asks again in disbelief.

"Yeah," she replies, covering his hand with hers. "Mags came and got me at the market. She said you ask for me sometimes when you're sleeping. She said… she said it would really help if I came to see you. She told me everything."

His heart is pumping wildly in his chest. He's sure she feels the tremble in his fingers. "Annie," he breathes.

This third utterance of her name causes a break in her voice. With a whimper, she nods again. "It's me, Finn. I'm here."

He's tried so hard to stay away, but he can't anymore – not when she's right in front of him, her eyes sparkling with tears. He needs to know she's real.

She's pulled towards him with urgency. He wraps her in his arms, burying his face in her neck. She returns the hug just as fiercely, gasping at the contact.

"I hated you," she cries, squeezing him tightly. "I hated that you left me after I… after we… after you said you'd never go back there."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into her skin.

She knots her fingers into his hair, resting her cheek against it. "Mags told me everything. She told me what they've done to you."

He squeezes his eyelids shut, but a tear escapes anyway. "I'm sorry," he repeats, inhaling the smell of the sea that lingers on her skin.

"It's not your fault," she breathes, tugging him even closer.

But he needs her to know it. Believe it.

"I'm so sorry," he gasps.

She nods against him. "I know," she whispers. "I forgive you."

He can't bear the thought of letting her go. He wants to hold her forever, just like he promised her he would. She fits so wonderfully in his arms and grips him like he's all she has. As though she _needs _him in a way that no one has ever needed him before.

They are silent for a long while, desperately clinging to one another. Finnick memorizes the smoothness of her skin, the softness of her hair and the sound of each breath she takes. He shuts his eyes to the feeling of her fingers gently raking through his hair.

The sense of total exertion of which he'd spoken earlier with Mags fills him then. It's like his lungs will burst. He knows that he hasn't felt this human in a long, long time.

Annie pulls back, holding his face in her hands. She uses her thumbs to stroke his cheeks.

"I missed you," she whispers.

A warmth spreads through his bones. He is inches shy of her lips, wanting so badly to kiss her, when a groan interrupts them.

"Mags," Annie says to herself, knotting her brows. She jumps up. Finnick is quick to follow her to the kitchen, fear replacing the warmth.

At the kitchen table, Mags is slumped over her chair. Her right arm hangs limp at her side.

"Mags!" Annie cries, rushing to her side. "Mags, can you hear me?"

The old woman lifts her head, though her eyes are cloudy. She opens her mouth, but only a garble escapes.

Finnick is paralyzed with fear.

Annie tries to help her up, but Mags leans heavily on her, complaining of dizziness.

"We have to get help," Annie says to Finnick. "Call someone!"

He picks up the phone, which comes equipped in all houses in the Victor's Village, and can't think of any number to dial but his own.

"Hello?" Dixie's voice answers.

"Mom," he says frantically. "It's Mags. She can't walk. Can't speak."

"I think she's having a stroke," he hears Annie say.

"What do we do?" he asks.

"The medical center!" Dixie exclaims. "You have to take her to the District Courtyard. Should I send Fletcher to get someone?"

"No," Finnick replies quickly. "I'll take her. I have Annie."

"Go quickly," Dixie says. "Go now."

He hangs up, realizing that Annie is struggling to support the elderly woman.

"Mags, I've got you," Finnick tells her, lifting her easily over his shoulders. To Annie, he says, "Get the door. We have to move."

* * *

><p>By nightfall, all ten victors have gathered at the medical center. They've left their families at home, not wanting to crowd Mags in her delicate state. Still, they want to be there for their head mentor. Finnick has not developed close relations with any of them, but Mags has a love for them all, and they love her in return. To see her go would be a great heartbreak.<p>

Dixie was the one who informed them – just as she'd informed Mags where to find Annie, Finnick later learns. According to Qais, she'd knocked on each door in the Victor's Village, bearing the bad news gently. Every victor was quick on his feet from there.

Using the phone in the medical center, Finnick thanks her sincerely. Her calm state in the face of tragedy got them all through the day. He wonders if it brought back memories of her husband's sudden death. He wasn't even there to grieve with her then.

Annie leaves him at twilight, knowing she doesn't belong in a close-knit room of victors.

"I can't help but think it's my fault," she says, teary-eyed. "She walked all that way to find me. All that way back. I'm sure that's what brought on the stroke."

"Then it's not your fault. It's mine," Finnick assures her, gulping his heart down his throat. "She found you for me."

Searching deep into his eyes, Annie asks, "Will you visit me again, Finn?"

He nods. He knows he shouldn't, that he doesn't deserve her, but he can't stay away now. Not when he needs her so badly. He is too selfish to stay away.

"Will you promise?"

Her pleading eyes nearly break him.

"I promise. As soon as Mags is on her feet, I'll be there."

With a nod, she gives him a weak smile and begins to walk out of the District Courtyard. Emotions swirl in his chest as he watches her go, when all he wants to do is hold her near.

"Annie?" he asks softly.

She turns.

With a true smile of his own, he breathes, "You're beautiful."

A flush spreads across her face. Rolling her eyes, she deadpans, "I've seen the photos. I know the girls you've seduced in the Capitol." Looking down at herself, she adds, "I'm nothing like them."

Her reference to his side-job makes him flinch. Still, he gives a wry smile and leans against the doorframe of the medical center, folding his arms across his chest. He scans her up and down as she waits expectantly.

He chuckles softly to himself. "You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

* * *

><p>It's after midnight when he arrives home, but a light is on in the kitchen. Curious, he steps cautiously through the door.<p>

Fletcher sits in the kitchen, hands folded stiffly on the table. When Finnick enters, his stony face doesn't even flinch.

"What's going on?" Finnick asks.

Barely moving his lips, Fletcher answers, "They took her."

He freezes. "They? Who? Mom?"

Fletcher meets his eyes, and Finnick can honestly admit that he's never been so scared of anyone.

"Yes – mom. Who? Capitol men," Fletcher replies calmly. He gives a moment for Finnick to process this before he slams his hand flat on the table, sending his brother jumping. "Dammit, Finn, they took her because of _you_!"

"Took her where?"

"To her death!" he cries, rising from his chair. He's shaking with rage, and Finnick can see a gash above his eyebrow, another above his lip. Dried blood is crusted underneath his nostril.

"What happened?" he asks.

"They came to collect you," he replies, struggling to keep his voice steady. "They had a job for you to do. Mom said no. You were with a dear friend. She wouldn't tell them who or where. She told them, 'Not today. You won't take him today.'"

It doesn't sound like his mother – but at the same time, it does. She knew the pain and fear associated with losing someone. She'd tried to protect him.

Bile rises in his throat along with deep-set panic.

"And then they took her," he finishes simply. "They took her in your place."

The blood on Fletcher's face now fits neatly into the puzzle.

"In my place?" he asks weakly.

Fletcher spins around, his eyes mad and fiery. "They're gonna kill her!"

Too stunned to respond, Finnick lets his voice echo throughout the room.

"Maybe not," he says quietly. "Maybe… if I can just get there… I can save her."

Fletcher's Adam's apple bobs up and down as he gulps. Then he rounds his fist. Leans back. Swings.

The acute sting in his jaw is nothing compared to the pain that follows, brought by Fletcher's words.

"_Save _her?" he asks, as if it's a ridiculous notion. "You _condemned_ her! You condemned all of us! You think I don't know what they did to dad? Well, I do. They wouldn't let us see inside the casket. Said his body was bent and broken from the shipwreck. But I had to see him. Had to know if it was true. And you know what I found?"

Holding his stinging jaw, Finnick shakes his head.

Fletcher spits, "A bullet hole in his chest."

Finnick backs into a wall, collapsing when his knees give out on him. He is falling apart. His heart is tearing in two.

"You killed them," Fletcher accuses him, hatred oozing out of every word.

"No," Finnick gasps, frantically shaking his head. It's his only defence.

"You killed them!" Fletcher booms, banging his fist on the table. He's so angry, his entire body is shaking. He approaches Finnick, eyes shrouded in darkness. "You're not my brother. Not anymore. All the luxury in the world won't buy you a family."

"Fletch," he pleads. It's too much.

"I never want to see you again," Fletcher says, his voice low, but firm. "Not in person, not on TV, not anywhere. As far as I'm concerned, you're dead. You died in the Arena."

He storms out of the kitchen, picking up a bag he's left in the hallway. Paralyzed on the floor, it's all Finnick can do to watch him go.

Before his brother shuts the door to their family home, he adds three last venomous words: "And good riddance."

Then he's gone.

* * *

><p><strong>So... let me know what you think here. I think it's important to show that Finnick has both bright and dark spots in his life - the dark greatly outweighs the light, but at the end of the day, it's those little bright spots that keep him hanging on :) <strong>

**Hope you've enjoyed! As always, I seriously appreciate your feedback. I'm running out of material to post on a bi-weekly basis (I should have seen this coming), but I _will_ have a chapter ready for this Sunday! **


	8. i wanna be there when lightning strikes

**Chapter 8:** _70__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

Finnick comes to love the peace and quiet of District 4. The sounds of the gulls crying and the waves lapping against the docks remind him of freedom now, not imprisonment. The cerulean skies overhead are wide open, and the sun shines down like it's smiling on them.

With Annie's head resting peacefully on his stomach, he could lie here in the sand forever.

Here on the beach is the only place where it all seems okay. When he's not on Capitol business, he works with Roscoe Roe to keep himself busy. Sometimes he takes out a boat and fishes in solitude. He spends time with Mags and helps with her physical and language therapy after her stroke. And he visits Annie. He tried to do so infrequently at first, but sitting alone in his empty house drove him mad. Stale, unhappy memories stain the walls of the house that destroyed his family.

He hasn't seen Fletcher since the night his mother was taken, though he knows his brother lives in a small house near the wharf. Just where an Odair belongs.

Annie and Mags – they're all he has left. He knows to tread carefully now. He does everything that's required of him by the Capitol without question. He won't make another mistake. Won't risk losing them.

"What are you thinking, Finn?" Annie asks him. She's practising different knots on a small, tattered piece of rope.

He's content doing nothing but staring at the sky. Placing a hand under his head for comfort, he replies, "If I set out now, I could probably catch a few sea bass for you and your mom. Dinner for a week."

Squinting in the sun, Annie turns her head to watch him. "No, don't."

"Why not?" Annie would never admit it aloud, but Finnick knows that she and Poppy are struggling. Poppy only brings home the meagre wages of a seamstress, and that's only on the days she can force herself to get out of bed.

"Because," Annie replies in a sing-song voice, "I want you to stay."

The corners of his lips twist into a smile and a warmth seeps through his skin. He shuts his eyes, relishing the feeling of being wanted.

"What about you?" he asks.

"Hmm?"

"What are you thinking about?"

"How I want you to stay," she answers jokingly.

Though it pleases him to hear it, he gives her a nudge, prompting her to give the true answer.

"Next week's Reaping," she says. Suddenly, he wishes he hadn't asked.

"Don't think about that," he tells her.

"I can't help it," she says, softening her voice. "You're not mentoring this year, are you?"

"I already told you I'm not," he replies. "But that doesn't mean I won't get called on to go. They always seem to need me there this time of year."

Annie's hands relax on her stomach, leaving the stray rope in the sand. "Oh."

After a period of silence in which Finnick listens to her breathing, he says, "One day, they won't call on me anymore. They'll lose interest. And then I'll be free to spend all my days with Roscoe. That old crank and I, we've got something good."

Propping herself on her elbow, Annie pokes his side. He squirms, laughing at her reaction.

"They won't get tired of you," she chuckles. "How could they?"

Their eyes lock. His smile starts to fade. He doesn't really believe it, either – it will be a long, long time before the Capitol releases their hold on him, if it's ever that easy.

With a sigh, he asks, "Will you get tired of waiting?"

Annie's smile is gone, too, hair falling loose from her braid and flowing in the breeze. "I'm already tired."

He knows. He can see it in her face. Every time he leaves for the Capitol and every time he returns, there's such a sweet sadness in her eyes. She's scared to love him when he could never fully belong to her, and he's scared to love her when he knows he may not get to keep her.

But he wants to. Oh, he wants to so badly. She's his happy thought amongst all the grey and black. So many times, he's had to restrain himself from pulling her close and kissing her. He holds himself back every time they meet. Thinks about it as he falls asleep.

But he cannot ask her for her heart when he can't give his in return.

He sits up in the sand and pushes himself onto his feet. Grabbing Annie's hand, he pulls her into a standing position.

"Come on. Let's go," he says, leading her towards the docks.

"Go where?"

"Fishing."

She jogs along behind his quick pace, asking, "What?"

He turns to face her. "If I have to go next week, then we'll spend all the time before that together if we can. But you need dinner. So you'll come fishing. You _do_ know how to be quiet, right?"

Her jaw drops in indignation, and she gives him a light shove.

With a grin, he adds, "And still?"

Annie gathers her hair in its messy braid and throws it over one shoulder, ready for action. "Get in the boat, Odair," she says daringly. "We'll see who's the fisherman here."

* * *

><p>"You all look positively resplendent," Marcocia Duterre tells this year's eligible contestants for the Hunger Games. Finnick snorts with laughter from his position in the crowd – most of the tributes are dressed in boring, basic shades, while Marcocia sports a wild pink blazer with a collar that nearly engulfs her entire head.<p>

"District 4 is so lovely this time of year," she continues. Finnick wonders if she's had extra injections in her lips – somehow, they look even larger than before. They're painted pink to match her outfit. "Very warm and colourful. But of course, there are two lucky tributes who will have the honour of joining me in the exciting Capitol – let's find out who, shall we?"

"Let's not," Finnick murmurs under his breath. Mags elbows him in the side and he doubles over with a grunt. For an old lady who's in stroke recovery, she has a mean jab.

Still, he must admit that he's glad to see her in the crowd rather than onstage awaiting the next tributes she will have to mentor, only to watch them die. She's not fit for another year and he's glad that another female tribute stepped in for her. He even finds it unfair that Mags was required to attend the Reaping – the heat of the sun boring down on her can't be good. But the Capitol states that if you aren't dying, you must attend the Reaping.

So he stands with her in the crowd as they await the next two tributes who will be chosen to experience the glitz and glamour of the Capitol before they die on national television.

"Ladies first, as always," Marcocia says while he hand digs around inside a glass bowl. There are hundreds of names entered in there, some entered ten, twenty, or even forty times.

Squinting in the sunlight, Finnick uses his hand as a visor to see her clearly. In grand ceremony, she unfolds the slip of parchment and holds it directly in front of her.

Marcocia leans into the microphone, declaring the one name Finnick hoped never to hear from her lips:

"Annie Cresta."

It can't be.

Despite the blinding sun, Finnick's world turns black. _Annie Cresta_. How is that possible? He suspected that she had tesserae, but with only herself and her mother to provide for, her name still wouldn't have been entered in the glass bowl many times.

From his vantage point, he sees Annie exit the roped area and walk down the aisle to the platform. The same walk he, himself, made only five years ago.

It can't be coincidence. It just can't be.

But what has he done wrong? What has he done to deserve this punishment – this _torture_?

_Somebody volunteer_! he feels like shouting. Every so often, there are volunteers in District 4. The ones who have trained for the Games and desire what they believe to be honour. Why can't there be one of them in the crowd? Why will no one take her place?

"No," Mags breathes from beside him. She takes his hand, though his entire body has gone limp.

Time is running out. Annie is climbing the stairs to shake hands with Marcocia, sealing the deal. There has to be _someone_ who will volunteer. But what can he do? A Peacekeeper struts into view just a few yards away. It's as if he's warning Finnick not to react. One step out of line will result in punishment, just as it would for any citizen of District 4. And Annie will just be thrown into the Arena anyway.

Annie takes Marcocia's hand. He can see her shaking even from so far away. Marcocia begins to dig around in the bowl for a male tribute.

It's done.

What is there to do? Finnick wants to sweep her into his arms and make a run for it, but that's not a possibility – especially not now, when they'll never let her out of their sight. There's no way to get out of it.

He can't watch her on television from his comfortable home in District 4. If she must go, then he can't let her go alone.

He has to go with her.

Apparently, Mags has the same idea. With a thwack of her cane on the back of his knees, she urges him forward.

"Go," she says. "Find Jarvis."

"You think he'll let me mentor instead?" Finnick whispers, looking both ways to ensure that no one is overhearing their conversation.

"Yes, yes. Get on the train. Go!"

Terror in his eyes, he kisses Mags on the cheek and runs into the crowd. Come hell or high water, he'll be on that train. Snow will not steal from him yet another person he holds dear.

Where the Capitol takes Annie, they'll have to take him, too.

* * *

><p>"Welcome aboard!" Marcocia greets the tributes. "Watch your step there – yes, wave goodbye. You're off on a great adventure!"<p>

Finnick is already aboard the train, though he made it by the skin of his teeth. The tributes are permitted thirty minutes to say goodbye to their loved ones – just enough time for Finnick to let Jarvis off the hook and then race home to pack a few belongings. On the sprint back to the District Courtyard, he thinks about how easy it is, really – his speedy departure. He has no one to say goodbye to anymore.

He waits for the tributes in the common area of the train with Elsie, his female co-mentor. Elsie is middle-aged with hair that's already grey, and she greets him stiffly, seemingly annoyed to be inconvenienced by the duty of mentoring. Finnick knows she'd rather be back home with her husband and children – but then again, wouldn't they all? Mags has done her a great favour by agreeing to mentor all these years in a row.

The male tribute enters first. His shoulders are broad and his lips are set in a thin line, but Finnick senses that his gruff expression is only for appearances. His eyes betray him – there's a specific sadness in them that reflects his last goodbyes with friends and family. Finnick can relate.

He shakes hands with the tribute and introduces himself, receiving only a grunt in response. He was hoping the tribute would politely state his name – to be honest, Finnick has completely forgotten. He's not sure he was even listening in the first place, too consumed by thoughts of Annie.

Annie.

She enters next, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. Though she's filled out over the years, as every woman does, Finnick can't remember ever seeing her so fragile – not even the little stick he knew at ten years old. He's overcome by the urge to rush to her, pick her up in his arms and shelter her from this world. It's his duty to do so – he brought her here. She will suffer because of him.

Annie's eyes widen at the sight of him. She's puzzled, but when he nods to her almost indiscernibly, she keeps her mouth shut. If no one knows how much she means to him, then it's best kept a secret.

"Slight change of plans," Marcocia says as she bustles in, urging tributes and mentors alike to sit on their respective sofas. "Due to an emergency, Jarvis can't be with us for the Games."

_Bull_, Finnick thinks – as if the Capitol would ever allow a mentor to sit out due to an emergency.

"Luckily, we're blessed with Finnick Odair, one of District 4's most popular – and most charming – victors!" She leans over the back of the couch to hug Finnick around the neck. He barely contains his shudder, reminded of the last time he was this close to Marcocia Duterre.

While Marcocia debriefs the tributes on their basic schedule before they enter the Arena, she walks around and perches herself on the arm of the sofa, her hand remaining on his shoulder. He grits his teeth to keep himself from recoiling, especially when her fingers trail across his neck and begin to rub his back.

He keeps his eyes on Annie and removes himself from his nerves so that he can't even feel Marcocia's touch. All he can feel is Annie's sadness. Her fear.

The escort finishes her debriefing and announces that dinner will be in one hour. She shows the tributes to their rooms and allows them time alone. While Elsie declares that she's going to unpack, Finnick sneaks away from Marcocia's grasp and, when no one's looking, slides into Annie's room.

Startled, she whirls around from the window and jumps, but he puts a finger to his lips to remind her to be quiet. He shuts the door as noiselessly as possible.

Then he is across the room in a flash, gathering her in his arms like he's longed to do since the moment her name was called.

"I didn't think it would be me," she says against him in a whisper. "I was scared – I always am – but I didn't think it would be me."

"I know," he whispers back, stroking her hair to comfort them both. "Neither did I."

"You didn't come to see me," she adds, her voice breaking. "I thought you would."

He sighs against her, holding her even tighter when the train makes a minor lurch. "I had to get on the train. No matter what."

"You hate the Capitol. You hate going back there," she murmurs into his shoulder.

"For you, I would."

She grips the material on his back, begging him not to let her go. He doesn't intend to. They sway with the movements of the train, lost in a silent embrace. Her heart beats wildly against his chest. She's terrified.

He is, too.

"Annie," he says, breaking their hold only to look her straight in the eyes. "It's my fault. Your name being chosen – it's no coincidence. Snow's doing this to punish me."

Annie frowns. "For what?"

"I don't know." He shakes his head, puzzled and angry. "But I know how he operates. He takes the innocent people I care for and makes them suffer for my mistakes."

Confused, Annie points out, "But he doesn't know about me."

"He does," Finnick insists. "When he killed my father, he threatened me with your life. He knew you then. He hasn't forgotten."

Annie takes a few moments to process this information, at a loss for words. She licks her lips, a heavy frown crossing her features. "So you think…"

"Yes," he confirms. "You're a tribute on purpose: to punish me. He's torturing me until I break."

"But…" she trails off, unable to form another argument. She knows it's true. She covers her mouth with her hand to muffle the sob that escapes her throat.

"Annie. Listen to me." With his hands firmly on her shoulders, he shakes her lightly until she looks him in the eye. "I won't let him do this. Not this time. I won't let him take you. We'll win this – I swear it."

The more tears slip out of her eyes, the more rage builds inside of him. He's angry. _Furious_. He's done nothing wrong; nothing to deserve this. Neither has Annie.

"How can I?" she finally asks through gasps.

"I'll find a way," he assures her with a confidence he's never before possessed. Unable to bear her tears anymore, he wraps her in another embrace. "But for now, I'm here. I'm not leaving."

His shirt dampens with her tears, but he cares not at all. "I didn't believe it when you didn't come to see me," she says with a sniffle, resting her cheek on his shoulder. "It hurt so much, Finn. I thought seeing you would be the hardest thing – but not seeing you was even worse."

"I know," he whispers. After a long period of silence, he adds, "I thought you'd come to see me, too. When I was chosen."

Annie sniffles again. "I wanted to," she admits. The train whirs by a cluster of trees, and Finnick watches the sights pass by as he hangs onto her every word. "But I couldn't. I told myself that if I didn't say goodbye, you wouldn't really be gone."

She slides her hands to his chest, pulling back to capture his eyes again.

"You'd have to come back home."

_The things we tell ourselves to make it through the night_, he thinks. He grabs Annie's hands. Intertwines their fingers.

"Then we won't say goodbye," he tells her. "Not now. Not ever."

Through her tears, she bravely nods.

* * *

><p>Finnick thought it would be difficult, training a tribute to die. It's in his brief conversations with Mace that he realizes just how monstrous he's become. He's short with the male tribute from District 4, and the snippiness comes easily to him. It's simple: either Mace dies, or Annie dies. The latter isn't an option. Despite his job to prepare both tributes for the nightmarish Arena, he can't risk giving the male a chance.<p>

"You have to be nicer," Annie scolds him one evening as they catch a moment alone before a strategy meeting.

The night is dark, but it seems as though the world is whizzing by. Finnick feels a motion sickness that only grows stronger, directly related to their proximity to the Capitol.

"I'll try," he sighs, rolling his eyes. "But it's like talking to a wall. He can't even fake a sense of humour."

Annie glares at him, and he knows he's being unfair – given the circumstances, it's remarkable that neither tribute has melted down and begged to be taken home yet.

"Not just to him," she says matter-of-factly. "But to Marcocia, too. You completely ignore her, even when she's practically got her legs wrapped around you."

It's true – Marcocia sat so close to him the evening before at dinnertime, she was borderline on his lap. After he'd wakened and showered in the morning, he'd stood by the window and she'd approached him from behind, pressing her breasts into his back and wrapping her hands around his waist. Any excuse she could find to touch him, she did. And he wouldn't give her a sliver of acknowledgement. Never would again.

Finnick pauses at Annie's comment, lowering his eyes to his fingers, which are absently tying knots out of an elastic band. "Well, that's another story," he mutters darkly.

He feels Annie's eyes on him and suddenly wants to disappear.

"Did you… did she…" Annie begins. "Is she one of the women who…?"

Exhaling, Finnick can only nod. He can't bring himself to meet her gaze. He's so ashamed.

He expects her to cringe or wrinkle her nose in disgust. Instead, she leans forward and places a hand on his knee. "Oh, Finn," she breathes, her voice quivering with sympathy. "I didn't know."

He shakes his head, concentrating on the elastic. "She paid for it," he mumbles. "If I didn't do it... I had no choice. But I hated it. Every second. Hated what she made me do when she knows what I've been through." He pauses, biting his lip. "Hated myself for letting them own me."

"I hate them, too," Annie whispers.

Frustrated with the rubber band, he uses it as a slingshot and aims it across the room. He gulps, feeling awkward. These are things he never wanted to share with Annie.

She squeezes his knee. "You have to be strong for me, Finn, in all of this. Because I don't know if I can be."

Her eyes plead with his, until he leans forward and says firmly, "I will. I'll be strong."

"Every minute," she insists. "We can't let them defeat us."

He nods in agreement. "Every_ second_. I won't let you die in there."

She winces at his persistence. "Don't say that," she says softly.

He raises his voice ever so slightly, repeating, "I will _not_ let you die in there."

She groans in frustration, pulling back from him. Her hair falls over her shoulder and into her eyes.

He begs for her attention. "Annie, listen to me. It's you and me. If you fight from the inside, I will spend every minute of every day fighting from the outside. They took everything from me, Annie, before I even knew it was gone. This time, I have a chance to fight back."

A pained expression is on her face as she brings her knees to her chest. "I know," she says mournfully. "But I'm scared."

"I'm scared, too," he assures her. "And that's how I know it's worth fighting for."

Outside the train, the world rushes by. When he stares closely, Finnick swears he can start to see the twinkling lights of the Capitol – beautifully deceptive, deceptively inviting.

* * *

><p>Grey haze fills the Capitol skies. Finnick feels the haze rooted in his bones, like it's a tumour inside of him that grows and spreads like a cancer. He sits in the stadium chewing his fingernails and obsessively craning his neck over the heads in front to check the jumbo-tron. Once President Snow enters the stadium and announces the 70th Annual Hunger Games, the tributes will start to make their way out by district, dressed in elaborate – and usually ridiculous – costumes.<p>

Desmeretta, who remains the stylist for District 4, waits with their tributes just outside the Training Center, ready to set them off in the parade. Finnick had paced the halls of the Remake Center all morning, nervously asking Desmeretta of her plans for Annie.

The stylist had cocked her eyebrow but made no insinuations on his curiosity. He gave her specific guidelines – Annie was to look strong, but not brutish. Kind, but not easygoing. Vulnerable, but not weak.

"Is that all, now?" Desmeretta had asked with a twinkle in her eye.

Realizing he sounded a bit ridiculous, he cracked a smile.

"Don't worry," Desmeretta had told him with a light nudge. "I'll make her beautiful."

Finnick chuckled, replying, "You won't have to try too hard."

And as he stands in the Training Center with the other mentors and various prep teams, all of their eyes glued to the screens around the room which broadcast the parade of tributes, he realizes he was right. Annie needed no help.

She is radiant.

"How did you do it?" she'd asked him earlier in the morning, before she'd been ushered away by her prep team. "How did you smile and wave at the people who will be happy to watch you die?"

"You imagine it's District 4, not the Capitol," he had replied. "And it's not a going-away, it's a coming-home."

His eyes are glued to Annie on the jumbo-tron, following her through the streets of the Capitol and past the thousands of flailing citizens. It's not her element, but she waves boldly to the crowd, blowing kisses and twirling in her costume for their delight.

And while she imagines that she's coming home to District 4, he pretends that she's coming home only to him.

* * *

><p>Annie – or more specifically, keeping Annie alive – becomes an obsession.<p>

She needs allies. She needs sponsors. She needs strength.

He pores over the pool of tributes, studying at length those who would be useful in an alliance and those from whom it's best to run. He devises their weaknesses based on their character and their performance in the group training sessions.

He's been around the Capitol long enough to know his best bets for sponsors. But if Annie can get more on her own, that's a plus. She needs to perform well in the private session with the Head Gamemakers, for a high score will generate Capitol investment in her fate.

And as for strength, he tries to give her as much as he can. Every moment she's not in training or prepping for her interview or being made over, he finds his way to her. To repeat to her that she is not alone. Together, they'll get her out of there alive.

Sometimes she believes him. Sometimes she doesn't.

He can't blame her for that. Not when he's sneaked away at night by Radman, who has another wealthy lady in waiting for him. Not when he so willingly performs his duties and then tiptoes back into the Training Center, running a hand through his dishevelled hair and contemplating whether or not to knock on Annie's door. He always holds back. She doesn't need to see him like this. Not now – not ever.

But he knows that his short absences make her wary of him. How does he explain to her that he does it for her protection?

Because when he's with the other women, and his eyes glaze over with what they perceive to be lust, but he knows to be emptiness, his thoughts are fixated on her. Only her. These days, he can't even remember the Arena. Not even the look in Saskia's eyes before he killed her.

He can only see Annie. And that's an image he can't – _won't_ – part with.

He won't let them take her.

She will not die for him.

* * *

><p>At night, before he's summoned, there's a quiet knock on his door.<p>

It's Mace. He stands at the door looking disgruntled to be there, which Finnick finds odd, as his blatant avoidance of the male tribute should not have counted as an invitation to his room in the black hours of night.

A heavy silence hangs between them as they wait for the other one to speak first.

"What is it?" Finnick finally asks, holding the door open so that Mace can enter.

The rough-edged tribute steps slowly into the room, as if he expects to find something different inside than the setup of his own room just down the hall. He turns to Finnick, who is taking great pains to shut the door without making a sound.

"I'm here to make a deal with you," Mace says.

Finnick blinks, thoughtfully striding forward a few paces. A wry smile crosses his lips. "You sound pretty sure of yourself there. What do you have that I might want?"

Gruffly, the boy shakes his head. "It's not what I have. It's what I can do."

"And what's that?"

"I can protect her."

The silence that engulfs them now is thicker than before, filled with unspoken suspicions and wariness.

"Annie," Mace clarifies, as if he could be speaking of anyone else.

Crossing his arms, Finnick asks airily, "Why would I care for her protection?"

"Because she's your tribute," Mace points out. With a careless shrug, he adds, "Because you love her."

Finnick searches the eyes of the tribute for malice or envy but finds only truth. Lying to him would only be a waste of time.

"We both know she'll die in there if there's no one to watch out for her," Mace continues, arms hanging limp at his sides. "She'd give her life to save another's, and that's the difference. She needs someone who'll keep her safe. Otherwise, she'll be exploited and then, when she's of no further use to her alliance, she'll be killed. Easy."

These kinds of things are what keeps Finnick awake at night, but he's determined to keep a cool demeanour.

"So I'm supposed to believe you'll protect her?" he asks evenly.

"Yes," Mace replies simply. "If we make a deal."

"Which is?"

"You get me sponsors."

Finnick fights a laugh. Isn't that what all tributes want? What all mentors work for?

"Elsie and I are working on it," he replies.

"I want _you_ to work on it," Mace tells him pointedly. "I know who you are. Your name carries a lot of weight in the Capitol. You can get all the sponsors you want – but if we make this deal, you're promising that those gifts will go to me. I'll share 'em with her, if there's enough to go around, but they get sent to me."

Finnick frowns, finding his proposition comical. "And if I give nothing to Annie, then how am I doing her any favours?"

"By keeping me strong, you're keeping her safe. As long as it's within my means, I'll protect her. If we make it to the final two, well, I'll make sure it's as painless for her as possible."

Finnick considers it. He has to admit that Mace's reasoning is logical – if he wants Annie to come out of the Games alive, it can't hurt to ensure someone in the Arena is watching over her. One on the inside, one on the outside.

And if they make it to the final two… well, Finnick has to make sure that doesn't happen.

Running his tongue over his teeth, he examines the strong, healthy boy in front of him, sizing him up. Judging the character of the tribute he cast aside long ago.

He holds out his hand. Mace shakes it.

"Deal?" he asks.

"Deal," Finnick agrees coolly. "But I have to warn you – if anything happens to her on your watch when you could have done something about it, then you better hope to God you die in that Arena, too."

He can tell that Mace has something on the tip of his tongue. A deadpan threat, perhaps. But whatever it is, he doesn't say it.

Instead, he smacks his lips and heads for the door, muttering only one word: "Noted."

* * *

><p>They've gone over potential questions a million times, but Finnick can't stop himself from raking his chewed fingernails through his hair on the night of the interviews. There's so much that could go wrong. So much that depends on a three-minute exchange with Caesar Flickerman.<p>

"Stop, before you pull it all out," Elsie tells him, grabbing his wrist to keep him from launching another assault on his hair. When he catches his reflection in the glass walls of the Training Center, he realizes she's right – he's tugged his bronze hair so fiercely that it now sticks up in all directions. He looks like a mad scientist.

"We've done all we can," she continues as she smoothes down his hair. "It's up to them now."

That's little consolation to him. With Annie's mediocre score in the private session with the gamemakers – a 7 – her interview could mean the difference between sponsors and no sponsors. The difference between life and death.

Finnick wishes he could just do it for her. Cameras and crowds don't intimidate him. If anything, they turn on a switch inside him. Rev him up.

He's not so sure about Annie.

"They'll be fine," Elsie assures him as they take their place in the crowd outside the Training Center, where an elaborate stage and several cameras are set up. Under her breath, she adds, "Your girl will be just fine."

He snaps to attention, eyeing his co-mentor suspiciously.

Elsie raises her greying eyebrows at him. "Yes, I know," she says quietly. "I remember her from the day Mags had her stroke, but even if I didn't, I'd still know. The whole of Panem can see that you're nervous – and Finnick Odair doesn't get nervous. You have to get yourself in order. Remember that you're in the spotlight, too."

She's right. Finnick takes it upon himself to smooth down the rest of his hair and straighten his collar. Sponsors will be looking for the best tributes, after all – and the best tributes can often be found in the mentors who have the most confidence.

Still, he's nervous. His palms begin to sweat when Caesar Flickerman takes the stage. The first six interviews are a blur – the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 3 all play up their strongest angle. Athleticism. Smarts. Brutality.

When Caesar offers Annie his hand to lead her across the stage, Finnick's heart stops. He had no idea what Desmeretta would design for her this evening, but the beautiful ocean-blue dress brings out the shine in her sea green eyes. If the Capitol hasn't fallen for her yet, Finnick doubts they ever will.

"Miss Annie," Caesar begins, keeping her hand in his for support, "how are you this evening?"

She gulps in air as she takes in the immensity of the audience. "Very well," she replies, "though very nervous."

"Nervous? What for?"

"There are a lot of faces out there," she remarks, and the crowd chuckles.

"Only to support you," Caesar assures her.

With a small smile, Annie looks out into the audience. She catches Finnick's eye. He winks.

"Well, thank you," she says, addressing the crowd. "You've all been very gracious to me. Back in District 4, I couldn't have dreamed of coming all this way and being treated like a princess."

"Of course you couldn't!" Caesar exclaims. "And I'm sure you never dreamed of being mentored by the notorious Finnick Odair, our resident Prince Charming and one of the Hunger Games' most celebrated victors!"

The crowd cheers, and Finnick's hair is tousled by a drunken Haymitch, District 12's mentor who sits behind him with a snort.

Annie can only laugh, the melody of her voice sending pleasant shivers down his spine.

"Tell me, Miss Annie – has our handsome Finnick Odair used his charm on you?" Caesar asks, leaning forward as if he's expecting the answer to be a secret.

Finnick can only shake his head in annoyance. Out of all the questions they'd rehearsed, they'd never discussed how to tackle a question that featured_ him_. He can tell that a sarcastic reply sits on the tip of Annie's tongue, and he pleads with her not to let it slip – the Capitol adores him, and it wouldn't be in her best interests to put him down on camera.

"He tries," Annie answers to the audience's laughter. "I'm sure if you asked him, he'd say he's won me over."

Finnick knows that the next image will be one of his reaction – for the cameras, he can only shrug and deliver a charming smile.

"But you wouldn't say so?" Caesar persists.

Annie crosses her ankles and releases her hand from Caesar's, folding it neatly onto her lap. Looking directly into the interviewer's eyes, she chooses her next words carefully. "I think there are some things that even my mentor doesn't know about me. He might underestimate me."

"Is that so?"

She gives a sly shrug and a close-lipped smile, her eyes playful.

"Well, it seems that Miss Annie might have a few surprises up her sleeve, after all," Caesar tells the crowd.

Though Finnick finds his face alight with a smile, he's also curious to find out what it is he doesn't know about his neighbour-girl.

"And what about the Arena, Annie? Have you thought about it?"

"I think about it all the time," she answers honestly.

"Are you afraid?"

Finnick's smile fades. He was hoping that the conversation wouldn't tread into serious territory.

Again, he can see Annie struggling with her words. She drags her teeth across her lower lip, contemplating her response.

"I have a great many things to lose," she admits. "It's not that I'm afraid of what's inside the Arena – it's that I'm afraid of entering it with last words still on my lips. Things that perhaps I should have said to the ones I love in case we never speak again. Things that I wish I had the courage to do."

"There may still be time for that," Caesar points out gravely.

Annie delivers him one last polite smile. Finnick doesn't know how she does it – it's so poignant that it can only be sincere – but there's such sadness in her eyes, his heart lodges in his throat.

From the collective sigh in the audience, Finnick realizes that he's not the only one. Annie's worked a particular kind of magic over them all.

"I suppose there is," she agrees. Her timer hasn't gone off, but she stands from her chair, extending her hand so that Caesar can escort her off the stage. "Then if you don't mind, I'd like to be excused so I can get started."

Leaving before your time is up – Finnick is fairly certain that's not allowed. But if Annie hasn't won over the crowd, she's undoubtedly stolen the heart of Caesar Flickerman. He thanks her for her time and sends her off with a kiss on the cheek and a good luck.

Finnick squirms in his seat, wondering how in the world he'll make it through seventeen more interviews before he can see her again.

* * *

><p>When all is said and done and the twenty-four tributes retire from the stage for their last sleep in luxury, Finnick finds Annie, removed from her ravishing blue dress and wearing the standard outfit of tribute-in-training. She's speaking quietly with a member of her prep team while Mace stands by with a dull expression.<p>

As Finnick approaches with Elsie, he catches Annie's eye. She quickly looks away, resuming conversation with the stylist, and Finnick wonders if he's done something wrong.

Elsie asks everyone if they're ready to go. It's getting late, and it's best to spend the final night before the Arena asleep, if you can get there.

The mentors and tributes begin to filter through the Training Center to their respective floors. Finnick can see that the crystal elevator will be packed. Elsie and Mace are up ahead, but before Annie can climb in, he grabs a hold of her wrist and gives her a gentle tug.

"We'll take the stairs," he tells the others.

After walking up the first flight without exchanging a word, Finnick wonders if Annie means to give him the silent treatment from now on.

"You did so well tonight," he tells her in earnest. "They loved you."

She nods placidly as she leads the way up.

"And your dress… wow." He feels stupid even as he says it, but even more so when Annie doesn't look back.

"I'm not worried about sponsors," Finnick continues. "There are some tough competitors in the Career pack and I have my eye on that girl from 9, but ultimately, I'm pretty sure we can—"

"Can we not talk about the Games?" Annie interrupts.

Her words hit him like the wind knocked out of his chest, effectively shutting him up.

When they reach the fourth floor, he reaches ahead of her on the landing and holds shut the door leading out of the stairwell.

"Annie," he gasps, catching his breath from three flights of stairs. "I'm sorry. Please don't be mad. Not tonight."

Panting, she gulps in a breath of air and lets her shoulders sag. "Finn – it's not that. It's…"

"What?"

She bites her lip, a flush creeping up her neck. "What I said during my interview… I meant it."

"I know. You're too honest to fake it."

"Will you come to me tonight, then?" she asks in a burst. "Instead of those other girls?"

Her voice echoes in the stairway. There's a fluttering in Finnick's stomach. Nerves, maybe. Or something else he just can't place.

If he's certain of anything, it's that he'd never deny her, would rather be nowhere else.

So he nods.

* * *

><p>Watching a recap of the interviews takes forever, and Finnick repeatedly taps his knee in impatience until Elsie orders him to stop it – he's only making the tributes nervous.<p>

_"It's not that I'm afraid of what's inside the Arena – it's that I'm afraid of entering it with last words still on my lips,"_ Annie's words circle around and around in his head. _"Things that perhaps I should have said to the ones I love in case we never speak again. Things that I wish I had the courage to do."_

So when they bid both tributes goodnight and retreat to their own bedrooms, Finnick stares out his window at the hubbub in the Capitol for no more than fifteen minutes before he's sneaking out on tiptoe, down the hall to the room he knows to be hers. The tribute from District 4 for whom his heart beats uncontrollably.

She is waiting.

Her dark hair, styled in an elaborate up-do for her interview, has been released of pins and hangs loosely in waves. She wears a champagne-coloured pair of pajamas made of fine silk. And she stares out the window at the enormity of the Capitol, the place that never sleeps.

It may be her last time to do so.

Finnick wipes the thought from his mind, hating himself for letting it slip in the first place.

"Hello, Miss Annie," he says quietly, locking the door behind him.

She looks over her shoulder, a faint smile on her lips – Caesar's fond nickname has caught on.

He crosses the room until he's behind her, willing her to face him so that he can fix his eyes on hers and hold them there for as long as she'll let him.

"Such a wonderful place," she says softly, placing her palm flat on the glass. Staring thoughtfully at the streets below, she adds, "But everything here is so empty."

He gulps, wondering what to say to that – he knows firsthand just how empty it can be. But he won't use their last night for that conversation. He just wants to be with her. To breathe her in so that, tomorrow and the next day, he can remember that for one night, he was hers.

Very gently, he wraps his arms around her waist and embraces her from behind, looking over her shoulder at the sights below. All the nights they spent together flood his mind, painting a beautiful pastel swirl in his memories – the sand, the sea, and Annie's tangled hair. Niggling in the darkest corner of his brain is all the nights that were wasted spent apart. The nights he was strong enough to remind himself that she was better off without him.

The charming and self-assured Finnick Odair can't think of a thing to say. Their minutes together hang in a precious balance: he's desperate for her to know his heart, but determined not to get caught up in goodbyes.

Annie, it seems, has different ideas.

She spins in his arms until they're face-to-face, cradling her hands to her chest. With a broken expression, she takes a breath and says, "There's one thing I want you to know."

He stares intently, wondering if it's what she alluded to with Caesar Flickerman – things her own mentor didn't know about her.

With a sigh, she says without ruffles or charade, "I love you and I always have."

The statement shocks him. He feels the urge to look away, to block her gaze, but that would be cowardice. He can't do so, not when she so bravely stated her feelings with such honesty in her bright eyes.

The words hang on his lips, but he can't say them aloud – not when he can't accept her admission. Heart in his throat, he shakes his head, a knot in his brow.

"You don't love me," he insists. "I'm the reason you're here."

"Shut up, Finnick," says Annie, annoyed. "Let me go on. I love you. And whether you believe me or not, you have to know that if I have to die, I'd do it for you. I would. And I wouldn't take back a single day; I'd never wish we hadn't met just so I could keep on living. The truth is that my life is better for having known you. It's… it's _something_, rather than nothing. And if that means it's cut short, then so be it."

"Annie…" he trails off, unable to go on. His lower lip quivers.

"They can take my life," she tells him firmly, "but that doesn't mean they've won. Because when I die, you'll know that I always loved you."

Finnick blinks back the hot tears that prick at the corners of his eyes.

"They want you to be alone, Finn. They won't stop until you are," Annie says, catching his gaze with her inquisitive eyes. They shine with tears, and in them, Finnick finds the sea-green of the ocean on a clear, sunny day. "But I'll always be yours, even when I'm gone. Even the Capitol can't change that."

With shaky breaths, Finnick brings his trembling hands to cup Annie's face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks.

"You're not gonna die," he tells her.

"Yes, I am," she replies calmly, though a tear falls from her eye. She latches her hands around his wrists, holding him to her.

"No," he argues. "I won't let you die. I won't give up, not until you're out of that Arena and in my arms again. You're gonna live."

Annie averts her eyes, releasing a gasp that turns into a sob. Though his hands firmly grasp her cheeks, she shakes her head ever so slightly. "Stop being so stubborn. Face it, Finnick. I'm not strong enough."

"We're strong together," he insists.

"No," she cries. "Even if I make it past the Bloodbath, even if I make alliances and get sponsors, I can't do it. I can't kill anyone."

"You won't know that until it's time," he says, his voice unsteady. "Sometimes you think you can't do something, but when your life's on the line, you—"

"I can't," she interrupts, tears cascading down her cheeks so fast, he can't catch them all with his thumbs. Sniffling, she adds, "Finn, it's not in me. And even if it was, I wouldn't. Please don't ask me to. I can't. I won't."

Choked, Finnick feels his heart snap in two. He presses his forehead to Annie's, weeping with her – for what they could have been – as the haze breaks around the moon.

When he's composed enough to speak, he manages to murmur a reply: "But I need you to."

Then his lips are on hers, their tongues mingling with salty tears. They grip each other with a determination not to let go, ignorant to the pain, to the break in circulation.

"Don't leave me," Annie whispers, eyes pleading.

He shuts his eyes, promising her with another kiss that he won't.

Entwined, they fall asleep with dried tears on their cheeks and the taste of what could have been forever on their lips.

* * *

><p><strong>I'll be back next Sunday! Also, thanks as always to those who have taken the time to read my writing and to those who have reviewed - especially those who reviewed anonymously whom I can't thank privately :) <strong>


	9. it's us against the world

**Chapter 9:** _70__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

A very fine thread is all that connects Finnick to reality on the day the Hunger Games begins. His mind begs to slip away, to fade to black – it's the only way to cope.

He sips on caffeinated beverages and keeps himself busy tying intricate knots or making strategy lists with Elsie. He must keep himself grounded to reality. He must not break down. He promised Annie he'd be strong for both of them.

Even if Annie has convinced herself she'll die in the Arena, one reminder of Snow's snake eyes in his dreams was all Finnick needed for the perseverance to propel his tribute to victory. She's lost hope in herself, so he has to carry twice as much.

As soon as the tributes are released from their platforms and Claudius Templesmith announces that the Games have begun, bets can be placed and sponsors can come forward. The tributes are stationed in their Launch Rooms with their stylists and prep teams while the mentors – more than forty of them – gather on the first floor of the Training Center. The Recreational Room was specifically built for mentors to view the Games. There are gigantic television screens in all corners, with tables and chairs set up in the center of the room. Each table has a number, representing the district, and a phone for sponsors to call in and pledge money towards a certain tribute. The Capitol sends many of its Avox servants to the Training Center to ensure that the mentors are always supplied with food and beverages – almost to serve as a guilty reminder that their tributes are going without.

The room is familiar to Finnick, bringing him back to the 66th Hunger Games in which he mentored. It was awful then, watching the tributes he'd purposefully kept at a cool distance being thrown to the slaughter while he sat in a comfortable room being served cakes and tarts. This time, there's no way it will be anything less than excruciating.

On television, the tributes are rising in glass cylinders onto their platforms. Finnick spots Annie instantly, her dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Bile rises in his throat. If it was awful back then, it's going to be unbearable now. Watching her helplessly from behind a screen, knowing if he was there beside her, he could protect her. Save her.

All mentors take their seats, eyes fixed to the various screens around the room, praying that their tributes aren't the first to be killed. But there's always a Bloodbath. That's guaranteed. And all the sponsors in the world can't guarantee a survivor within the first few minutes. That's based on strength and speed alone.

Elsie grabs his hand as the clock counts down. She shuts her eyes as if in prayer.

Just like her, Finnick can't watch. But closing his eyes brings too many terrible images to mind – landmines exploding around Annie's platform. A spear through her body. Dagger in her heart. Throat slit. Eyes gauged. Neck broken. Skull cracked.

His eyes fly open as the 70th Annual Hunger Games begin.

Tributes are running to the Cornucopia. The shots switch so quickly that Finnick can't orient himself – which tributes are where? Who's running for what? And what is Annie doing?

He sees her only in flashes, arms pumping and eyes darting in all directions – but she's not the first to the Cornucopia. A tribute from District 5 finds a knife in the grass and hurls it straight into the back of another tribute who'd already reached the Cornucopia. Another two tributes fight over a large backpack of supplies, teeth bared, until a third thwacks one in the head with a stone and stomps on the other's lungs, taking the pack for himself.

The screen splits into six so that multiple close-up shots can be viewed at once. One is of Annie, who's picked up a pack along the way and has chosen to flee to the trees, about a hundred yards away, until the Bloodbath is over and she can rejoin the Careers. Finnick had instructed her to do so, knowing it was too risky for her to stick around while the massacre ensued, even if she had the Careers on her side.

But there's someone hot on her trail – someone who desires the pack. Finnick recognizes him as the male tribute from District 7. Though he has no weapons, he clearly thinks that his size and strength can overpower the delicate girl from District 4.

Finnick's afraid he might just be right.

His knuckles whiten as he grips Elsie's hand. She squeezes back, murmuring words to herself.

Annie looks behind her to see her pursuer only footsteps away. Finnick sees the blind terror written all over her face, and it's something he hopes he never has to see again.

He inhales sharply when the District 7 tribute lunges forward, tackling Annie to the ground. Annie thrashes, but she's just not a match for her predator. He climbs up her waist while she attempts to beat him back, but he's got her pinned. He wrestles to get the pack off her back, but isn't succeeding with Annie lashing out. Finally, he gives up. Having no weapons, he moves his hands to her neck, to strangle her.

"No," Finnick whispers, shutting his eyes. He can't watch. How can it be? Just hours ago he was sleeping soundly next to Annie, and now she's at the end of her life.

He should have told her he loved her. Just in case. But they'd promised each other that no goodbyes would be uttered – that way, she'd have to get out of the Arena.

"Finnick!" Elsie gasps, digging her nails into his forearm.

His eyes fly open at her excitement, instantly furious at the sight of Annie turning blue. But then he sees what Elsie sees: Mace is barrelling across the field toward Annie and the boy from District 7. And he has in his hands what appears to be a javelin.

Instead of launching it at the boy from District 7, Mace hoists the weapon over his shoulder as he sprints and then sends it crashing into the boy's skull. He's dead before he even hits the ground.

Mace drags the boy's body off of Annie, whose eyes are wide as saucers though her face is flooding with colour again. She's gasping to regain her breath after being choked, but Mace is pulling her to her feet, urging her up, up, up and to the woods. Annie takes his hand and stumbles at first, but then she's running, leaving the Bloodbath behind her. She steals one more glance at the boy from District 7. Then she's gone, and the screen flips to more exciting action at the Cornucopia.

Finnick isn't sure he'll ever be able to re-hinge his jaw or measure his relief in numbers or words, but he's sure of one thing: Mace took their discussion very seriously.

And now it's Finnick's turn to uphold his end of the bargain.

* * *

><p>Finnick was almost glad when Radman fetched him that evening. Interactions with Capitol citizens are a good way to acquire sponsors for one's tributes – and he has a feeling that the intimacy of their interactions might open the wallets of his patrons.<p>

Now, he lays on his back on sex-stained sheets as a woman with orange eyes cuddles up to him. She's younger than his usual clients and her immaturity shines through. Her giggle, a quiet but high-pitched shriek, appears to be her answer to everything. She'll be easy.

"Was that good?" Finnick asks her, tilting his head down to search her orange eyes.

She raises a sculpted eyebrow, as if the answer should be obvious. She giggles.

"Good," he says smugly. "I aim to please."

"More than please, I would say," she chuckles.

"More than please?" he asks, cocking an eyebrow. "Well, then I'll have to charge extra."

He leaves her room as the sky lightens at dawn, stinking of charm and lust and greed, but with a sponsor pledge to show for it.

A yawn reaches his lips as he enters the Training Center, but he knows he won't have a chance to rest though his eyes water with weariness. He's craving to shower the girl with the orange eyes off his body, but decides to visit the Recreation Room first to check on the Games. The last time he'd left Annie, she and Mace were preparing their shelter for the night, dehydrated from the day's events and without a source of water.

He assumed he'd be alone in here, just him and a few Avoxes who were preparing for the day. At the breakfast station, he pours himself a large cup of coffee and takes a roll from the breadbasket, staring darkly at the screens above. Looks like the tributes are just waking up, too. He searches for Annie amongst the split screens.

"They're fine," says a voice approaching from behind. Startled, he whips around to see Johanna Mason, whom he knows to be a recent victor from District 7. "They haven't found the other Careers yet, but they're pretty hidden in the woods – no one would find them. They had a good sleep… comparatively speaking."

Without a reply, he raises a curious brow and chews carefully on a bite of bread.

Johanna shrugs. "That's what you're wondering, isn't it? I saw you leave a few hours ago – I figured you're just checking in."

He wonders how many people had 'seen him leave'. It's not a secret anymore, his prostitution. It shames and degrades him as a human, but it can't even be a secret. For the first time, he feels relief that his parents are dead – they'll never have to know who he's become.

He takes too long to respond, so Johanna continues, "Yeah, I've been up a while. Keeping an eye on my one surviving tribute, since your boy killed the other three minutes in."

Finnick remembers the boy from District 7 and how he tried to kill Annie. Mace's attack on him wasn't unwarranted.

He shrugs, unapologetic. "Trust me, Mace did him a favour."

Johanna folds her arms across her chest, her wide brown eyes probing. "How so?"

He eyes her warily, suspecting that she already knows. After all, apparently he has no secrets left at all.

"Would've killed him myself if he'd made it out of there," Finnick replies in a low voice, sipping on the mug of coffee.

If Johanna's surprised to hear this, she keeps it to herself. Instead, she bites her lip and nods, a faint hint of a smile gracing her features. "So, you get a sponsor overnight? Convinced someone that sweet Miss Annie might come out of there alive? I have to say, I've looked into Capitol betting pools, and the odds of her victory might shock you." With a smirk, she adds, "Then again, no one was betting on me, either."

Finnick remembers Johanna's victory from not so long ago. She's right: the odds weren't in her favour. She had all of the tributes – and the audience – believing that she was a weakling, famished and scared. Then when the pool of tributes was small enough, she showed them just how deceptive – and how brutal with an axe – she truly was.

Finnick senses that he's given away far too much by hardly saying anything at all. He stuffs the last bite of the roll in his mouth to keep himself from snapping at her.

"They killed half my family when I won – I'd caused a huge upset to Capitol gamblers – and the other half a few months later after I was sold to our Head Peacekeeper. I killed him before he could touch me."

She talks so openly about it that Finnick is unable to keep his eyes from widening. He scans the Recreation Room for cameras, microphones, or an Avox that might be lurking nearby. How can she speak so freely?

"I don't care if they hear," she tells him coolly. "Besides, it's not like this is news to you – everyone knows they've gone after you, too. That's the price of being dashing, I guess."

He'd heard from Mags that Johanna was snippy, but it's clear there's more fire in her than he'd anticipated.

"Best to let her go," she finishes. "All I'm saying is, if you let her go, you've won. It's the truth. When there's no one left you love, there's nothing they can do to you. Nothing they can hold against you. You're free."

Finnick lowers his sunken eyes. Though he can't prove her wrong, he can't afford these kinds of thoughts.

"And wouldn't that be lovely?" she asks him, her voice fainter now, like it's floating in the clouds. "To be free?"

* * *

><p>On the third day, Finnick and Elsie (though mostly Finnick) have racked up enough support for their tributes to send in ointment for Mace's legs, eaten alive by mutt mosquitoes the night before. Elsie wanted to send in blankets, arguing that the sound of Annie's teeth chattering at night could give away their position. Finnick knows that the nights are especially frigid for Mace and Annie, who have only ever known the sun and heat of District 4 – but he remembers his promise to send sponsor gifts to Mace first and foremost. He has to hope that the gamemakers won't drive the temperature down to zero in the meantime.<p>

If Mace was ever in fear of weakening, he need not. Annie is there to watch over him and keep him strong.

"He saved her ass – she owes him," Johanna remarks offhandedly one afternoon as she and Finnick stand together watching the screens.

But Finnick senses it's more than that. The mutt mosquitoes had exchanged Mace's blood for their own venom which lulled him into unconsciousness. It was a surprisingly humane way for him to go and the perfect opportunity for Annie to be rid of him – but instead she'd made a small incision in her forearm and, with her own blood, lured the mutts under a small tarp that she'd found in the pack. She'd stomped them to death, nursing Mace back to consciousness with fresh water from the stream and the last of their food supplies.

After their tributes join up with the rest of the Careers, Finnick and Elsie are able to secure them all canteens in which to hold water. When they hunt a tribute by tracking down a fire in the dark and the girl from District 1 is thrown into the flames before the tribute is killed, Annie is the only one who will spare the water in her canteen to soothe the girl's singed face.

When the Careers receive a platter of fresh food but the boy from District 2 is off hunting, Annie sneaks food from the platter and hides it in her pack to give to him later even though no one's sure he'll return at all and food is a scarce commodity.

Sometimes, Finnick approaches the screen with a knot in his brow, wondering what the hell she's thinking. What kind of strategy is this? There's no buddy system in the Arena. No need for reciprocity on the part of the other tributes.

"It's not a strategy at all," Elsie tells him. "It's who she is."

"It's every man for himself, alliance or not," Finnick argues in frustration. "Why is she helping them at her own expense?"

Elsie blinks. Gravely, she replies, "Because she's good. And kind."

He doesn't doubt it for a second. Annie's heart bleeds for the others, whose hearts only thirst for victory. Tributes are trained to cast morals and ethics aside when they enter the Arena. There's no room for goodness. They're instructed to let instinct take over. To hunt like animals. Kill like predators.

His Annie is so good and so kind. Those values are so deeply engrained in her that she can't be trained otherwise.

And that's why she'll die in there.

* * *

><p>He tells Radman to book him more clients. He'll serve two at night and one during the day if he has to. He makes the deals with them even before they undress – <em>if we do this, you'll support my tributes. You'll get one of them out of there<em>.

(He omits to which tribute he's referring).

He allows himself only a few solitary minutes after every customer but before every shower where he hunches over and cradles his head in his hands, wondering what he's done and asking for forgiveness. Begging for mercy on his blighted and undeserving soul.

An Avox will enter to serve him coffee or make his bed while he basks in his own misery. They are the only ones with the privilege of seeing his shame. The strong, charming Finnick Odair curled up against the wall, whispering to himself as he fights back tears and rocks back and forth.

They see what a beast he is. They, too, are burdened with his suffering, his secrets, his monstrosities – they have no one to tell and no means with which to tell it. The Capitol exacts its revenge on them with such articulation, it's almost poetic.

And if the Capitol demands revenge, revenge it will get. It's not getting even – it's asserting total dominance over those who acted against it. Ensuring that they know there's no fighting back. There's no escape from its clutches. No hope.

Finnick realizes this on the day his mother appears in his private quarters to serve him tea and rolls and tidy up his suite. He reeks of others' sweat and perfume and his eyes are sunken and dark as he stares at the vast loneliness of the Capitol out the window. He doesn't turn when he hears the Avox entering, knowing he's doing them both a favour.

A hand on his shoulder causes him to flinch. He whips around on the defensive, prepared to snap. Then he sees the muted grey of her eyes and their deep-set concern.

"Mom?" he croaks, certain he's hallucinating.

The woman nods, handing him a mug of tea.

He ignores it, reaching out to touch her. She turns her cheek toward his hand, a tear trickling from the corner of her eye.

"You were dead," he whispers. "Fletcher told me you were dead."

She shakes her head, eyes sparkling with tears.

"What did they do to you?" he asks, holding her head in his hands.

With a whimper, she covers her lips with her fingers. She can't speak. He knows they've cut out her tongue.

Finnick grits his teeth, moving his hands on her shoulders more to steady himself than anything else. Biting his lower lip, he averts his eyes and cries out.

"They did this to you – why? To punish me?"

She nods.

"My God," he breathes, choking on his own words. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I…"

He can't finish. While he gasps and splutters, his mind spiralling out of control, Dixie pulls him close and hugs him like a mother should, abandoning the mug of tea. She used to whisper in his ear. He waits for the words: "My boy… my sweet boy." But the words do not come.

As he sobs against her shoulder, he sputters, "I didn't know. I didn't think… I'm so sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry. It's not your fault. You don't deserve this. None of it would have happened if… I should have died in there. I should have died. I'm so sorry."

His mother must know who he is, the notorious Finnick Odair. She must know what he does to appease the Capitol. The girls. His political support of the Games. Even after they tortured her, he stills remains loyal to his president. How could he abandon her so? What must she think of him?

He's not worthy of her. Not worthy to be her son.

Dixie wets a warm cloth and washes away his tears. She sits him down and places the cloth on the back of his neck to calm him down, like she did when he was a child. She puts an arm around his shoulder and rubs it in comfort while he mutters that he hates himself. Rather than be comforted, he can only feel a hatred growing in his chest. It burns like it's on fire. And in that fire sits the president to whom he has pledged his loyalty. The president who ripped his life to shreds like a hungry wolf to its defenceless prey.

She spends longer with him than she should. When her care and devotion have calmed him down ever so slightly, he rationalizes with clenched teeth that she was sent here on purpose. She's meant to unhinge him; to distract him from the goal of getting Annie out of the Arena.

What's done is done. Dixie will never speak again. Never come home again. He can't change that.

But he can change the outcome of the Games. He can bring Annie home.

Dixie kisses his temple and brushes haggard strands of bronze hair from his forehead. She gently guides him to the bathroom, where she has towels set out for him to shower along with a fresh set of clothing.

She's right. He feels like giving up – the urge to jump from the top of the Training Center has never been stronger, but he will not abandon the one who has not yet been stolen from him. He must go on.

After he cleans himself up, he emerges from the bathroom expecting to find her waiting for him.

But she's gone.

Next to the tray of fruits and bread she's left for him, there's a note scribbled on a scrap piece of parchment. The three words it contains give him the strength and resolve to soldier on.

_I Love You._

* * *

><p>That same day, Annie and her group of Careers are hunted down by the fearless female from District 7. Like the Capitol itself, she believes strongly in revenge. She waits until Mace pulls up the rear of the pack as they travel. Then she makes her move, wielding a sharp axe. He barely has time to turn around before she's lobbed off his head.<p>

It's a clean cut. It flies from his body into the startled pack of tributes ahead, rolling across the ground until it comes to a stop, its lifeless eyes aimed at the sky.

Finnick watches as Annie's eyes widen. He sees her shrink back in fear, staggering in disbelief. He notes the horror in her expression, eyes etched with pain and loss and regret. He so clearly reads her thoughts because he's been plagued with the same: if Mace had never saved her at the Bloodbath, he wouldn't have been hunted by District 7's partner. If it weren't for Annie, he might still be alive.

She'll never let go of that, no matter what. It will haunt her as long as she lives.

And he knows, without a doubt, that the Capitol has taken a piece of her that he will never get back.

* * *

><p>Though it's unbalanced his girl in the Arena, Finnick is relieved for Mace's death. Now he works even harder for sponsors, and every penny goes toward Annie. Sponsors are less eager to donate to the fragile, shaky girl who's too good to harm a fly, so he must submit himself to evermore degrading deeds.<p>

On his way out of a patron's suite, gritty and run-down, he encounters a balding man with grey hairs interspersed amongst dark chestnut. He wears professional but fairly unsurprising clothing – Finnick suspects he's not a Capitol man.

"Mr. Odair? Is that you?" he asks, pushing himself from the wall with his foot.

There's something about the man that's familiar to Finnick, though he can't quite place it. Running a hand through his hair, he sighs heavily, hating to be disturbed during his most reprehensible moments.

"What now?" he asks in annoyance, brushing past the man and heading for the elevator.

"I'm sorry to bother you," says the nervous man, following Finnick down the hallway. "But I-I had to find you. Speak with you."

"About what?" Finnick looks over his shoulder with a distrustful frown.

"About Annie."

The mention of her name sends Finnick rigid, frozen to his spot. "You want to sponsor her?" he asks, raising a curious eyebrow. If she were a stronger tribute, then maybe he'd believe the suspicious man.

"No, no," the man dismisses him. When he realizes Finnick's disappointment, he adds, "I'm not in a position to do so. What I came to ask – now, I don't know the Games as well as you do – but it seems to me that the girl is weak—"

"She's not weak," Finnick snaps. The man follows him into the elevator.

"Well," he says in a timid voice, "let's agree that she's not _strong_. The boy's decapitation traumatized her. She won't kill, not even in an act of revenge."

Though he can't argue, Finnick gives the man a menacing glare. Who does he think he is, making judgments on Finnick's tribute? He doesn't know Annie's capabilities. He doesn't know what she'll do when faced with death.

"So it seems to me she'll have to win by other means," the man continues as the elevator begins to move. He holds his hat in his hands, crunching the rim. "She has no offence and without the boy to watch over her, she has no defence, either. Her only hope to be the last one standing is to withstand the elements of the Games while others are drawn into battle and perish."

Finnick lets the man's words echo in the elevator before he demands, "What do you care?"

The man gulps, staring down at the felt of his hat. "Oh, I care a great deal," he says quietly. "The girl – she's mine."

Confused and defensive, Finnick snarls, "What?"

"Annie Cresta," the man declares, raising his eyes to meet Finnick's, "is my daughter. And it's on account of me that she's in the Arena. You have to understand – I must get her out of there."

It's with his simple declaration that Finnick sees Annie in the man. They have the same roan-coloured hair; the same crinkles in the corners of their eyes. This man is Wren Cresta.

Finnick holds onto the bar in the elevator to support himself. "What do you mean?" he asks, struggling to keep his voice even.

Wren sighs. "Bit of a run-in with my team. A disagreement, really. And this is the price I pay."

Suddenly, Finnick realizes that Annie was doomed from the start. Between himself and Wren, the two men who loved her dearly, one of them was destined to make a wrong move that would put her life in danger.

He doesn't feel relief knowing it wasn't his mistake that placed her in the Arena. He only feels anger.

"How could you?" Finnick asks, rage bubbling in his throat. "How could you, when you know what they can do?"

"Shh," the man hisses, begging Finnick to keep his voice down. "You don't know what's bugged here."

A reminder that Annie's father is a Capitol spy does nothing to calm Finnick. Instead, he bursts from the elevator and strides across the lobby, snapping, "I don't give a damn about that! Do you know how hard I've worked to keep her alive until this point? Do you know what I've had to _do_? And it's your fault! _You're_ the one who should die, not her!"

Wren jogs to catch up to him, grabbing a hold of his shoulder. Finnick spins around, nostrils flaring.

"I know," Wren whispers, eyes darting across the lobby. "I know, son. I owe you everything for what you've done so far. But still, I must ask you to do more."

Finnick raises his arms and then lets them flop helplessly to his sides. "What more can I do?"

Wren leads Finnick outside, his shifting eyes causing Finnick to be wary of everyone around him. So as not to arouse suspicion should anyone be listening, Wren remarks offhandedly, "When she was just a little thing – couldn't have been more than four or five – I taught her to swim. She'd kick and paddle for hours. Fearless, that one – her favourite game was jumping into the waves."

Finnick frowns.

"The geography of Panem is quite interesting," Wren continues, and Finnick can't help but feel as though his time is being wasted. Precious time needed to save Annie. "Our country is vast, surrounded by ocean – but District 4 is the only district not landlocked. Most other districts haven't even seen the bright blue ocean."

Wren pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket and removes the pen resting behind his ear. As he scribbles, he rambles, "A pity, isn't it? To never see the ocean? To never watch the waves roll in?"

He crumples up the note and shakes the hand of a bewildered Finnick.

"I think of it every day," he finishes in a weak voice. "It's all I have to hold onto."

Then he climbs into a vehicle waiting for him on the curb. He gives the driver directions and they speed down the road. Wren never looks back.

Running a hand through his hair, Finnick does the same, directing his driver to the Training Center. He waits until he's in the shelter of his own room before he smoothes out the scrap of paper balled in his fist.

_Burn after reading_, it says. And then below, three more words that confuse him further:

_Find Seneca Crane._

* * *

><p>Finnick watches with despair as Annie separates herself from the Career pack and goes into hiding. While it seems to the rest of Panem that Annie is developing a strategy, Finnick knows the truth: she's not hiding from death. She's hiding to be alone. To spare the others from witnessing the sanity slowly drain from her eyes until there's nothing there at all.<p>

He and Elsie send her little meals to keep her alive while she camouflages herself in a bush near a stream. They're lucky that more high-profile tributes are still alive and battling to the death – Annie is mostly left alone by the gamemakers and allotted very little screen time.

She's discovered after only a few days by a female tribute, who scares her out of the bushes and lurches after her into a beautiful meadow.

The meadow is alive with explosives.

Neither of the tributes are aware of it, but they quickly find out as Annie's pursuer triggers a mine with her heavy footsteps. Annie is thrown forward in the explosion, covering her ears from the sound. Bits of the girl's remains are scattered throughout the field as the cannon booms. As Annie tiptoes out as fast as she can, muttering frantically to herself, she runs into an arm. Then a foot.

Mortified, she climbs. The ground isn't safe anymore. When the cannons sound, she covers her ears and shuts her eyes tightly, imagining it's another landmine. She eats the tree's leaves for sustenance, though her face is ashen and gaunt. Finnick and Elsie switch from sending meals to sending water until sponsor gifts are cut off by the gamemakers, who now intend to draw the remaining tributes in to fight eye-to-eye.

Annie ignores the gamemakers' invitation to the Cornucopia. She remains high in the trees despite her dehydration.

When there are only four tributes left, Finnick learns that Poppy Cresta is dead. She weighted herself down and waded into the sea.

Annie will die due to lack of water while her mother has died from an excess.

News of Poppy's death breaks the last bond of rationality in Finnick's brain. The trigger sends him ballistic. And suddenly, in a moment of clarity, he knows what Wren intended him to do.

_Water._ It's all about water.

The gamemakers' compound is heavily guarded. He waits until Seneca Crane, the newest appointed Head Gamemaker, gives an interview with Caesar Flickerman on the final few days of the Games.

"Let's just say that Panem won't have to wait much longer for their victor," he finishes mysteriously.

Finnick corners him after the interview, seething. He grabs Seneca's collar and shoves the startled man into a wall.

Breathing down his neck, Finnick hisses, "Flood it."

"Mr. Odair, I—"

"_Flood it_."

His eyes are wild; his breathing erratic. Water. It's the only way.

"You must understand," stammers Crane, "the plans for the Games have already been set. They can't be changed on a whim."

"You're Head Gamemaker," Finnick tells him, gripping his collar so tightly it nearly chokes the man. "You flood the Arena."

"Mr. Odair, I'm sorry," Crane chokes, "but if I let mentors threaten me—"

"I'm not threatening you," Finnick interrupts. "I'm _ordering_ you."

Rouge peppers Crane's cheeks from lack of oxygen. "On what grounds?"

Finnick steps closer so that their noses almost touch. "If she dies, I die."

Seneca manages a nervous chuckle. "Sounds like a threat to me."

"You can spin my death any way you want," Finnick continues, "but ultimately, the Games will take a hit without me to charm the crowds. Have fun explaining it to Snow."

Crane places one palm flat on the wall behind him, using the other hand to claw at his throat. Finnick loosens his grip but continues to bore his eyes into the gamemaker's.

"You're hardly in a position to bargain," Crane remarks, though he's shaken from his near-strangulation.

Finnick recalls Crane's wariness two years ago when he asked about the mutt spiders. The way he'd scanned the room for dangerous ears before speaking honestly with Finnick.

"You have a heart," he says, backing away from Crane. "You know what they've done to me. Don't let them take her away, too."

Crane straightens his collar and smoothes a hand over his hair, sticking his nose in the air in defiance. Still, his eyes soften at the boy's words.

"Bring her home," Finnick pleads, his voice nothing but a strangled whisper. This is his last hope. "_Please_."

* * *

><p>In the middle of the night, water begins to trickle into the Arena. It's so quiet that it's scarcely heard, even by the tributes who sleep on the ground.<p>

By morning, the trickle turns into a steady stream. The two tributes on the ground plod around with water up to their ankles.

At noon, they're forced to climb. Up, up, and away from the gushes of water that roll in. It flows into the Arena at an increasing rate, suspending all wars between tributes as each one tries to stay above the waves.

And there _are_ waves. This is the Hunger Games, after all. The first tribute succumbs to the water when he's sucked into a whirlpool.

The tributes can't stay perched on their lofts much longer. The water rises by the second now, until all that's left of the Arena is the tips of the trees. They shed their backpacks and supplies, knowing weapons will only drag them under the currents.

And then there's only water and three tributes lost in it. One goes under almost instantly. Only two minutes later, a cannon booms.

Another tribute floats on a piece of debris, conserving her energy.

Annie just swims. She treads water when she can and chokes when waves crash over her, but she stays afloat, her head always bobbing above the water level. It's not about fighting to stay alive; it's about instinct. Swimming is as natural as breathing.

The tributes float and kick and paddle for the better part of an hour when the gamemakers grow bored. All of a sudden, the waves grow larger. Deadlier. They rise and cast enormous shadows over the tributes before they crash down with a vengeance. They grow larger and larger until one massive wave emerges to create a ripple throughout the entire Arena. Both tributes stare at it with wide, terrified eyes as it freezes above the water level, poised to crash down on them.

And crash it does. A bird's eye view of the Arena shows that it's been rocked. Both tributes are pulled under, way under. Finnick grips the edge of his seat, knowing it's the end. That was the final push to end the Games.

A cannon booms, though it's unknown which tribute has drowned. No one emerges from below.

A piece of debris, which used to hold a tribute, floats to the surface.

Then there is nothing. Panem waits with bated breath. How could one survive the deadly waves?

A head pops up from the depths. The tribute sputters and coughs up water, pushing her tangled hair from her face. She begins to sink again, having no strength left.

Annie is pulled from the Arena, shivering, unconscious and emaciated.

But she's alive.

* * *

><p><strong>I don't really know what kind of comments to expect for this chapter, so I guess I'll wait and see. A ton happened, and despite losing hope for a while there with all the Capitol did to unhinge him, he pushed himself to the limit to get Annie out of there. <strong>

**Hope you guys have a GREAT week and I'll see you next Sunday!**


	10. in my heart she left a hole

**Chapter 10:** _70th Annual Hunger Games_

Finnick remembers everything about the Arena. He remembers the forest. He remembers the pond that turned toxic. He remembers blood splattered across the Cornucopia from the Bloodbath, the boom of the cannon reverberating in his bones. He remembers shivering in the night, his eyes burning with sleep deprivation. Silver parachutes and coils of rope. The trident that saved his life and stole so many others. He remembers the others, too. His competitors. His victims. He still hears their tortured screams; their pleas for mercy. He watches them over and over in his mind as they're bludgeoned to death, poisoned, shot by arrow or spear, or stabbed. He remembers Saskia's eyes flying wide open before he killed her. The recognition and terror in her face will stay with him as long as he lives. The Arena haunts him.

Annie remembers nothing of the Arena, yet it haunts her even more.

He's not given permission to see her for two days after she's retrieved from the Arena. 'Highly destabilized', the physicians tell him. 'Dehydration has caused her confusion and disorientation.'

He doesn't care. He just wants to see her, but they won't let him in. He's driven mad waiting, taking Capitol women to bed almost as if to pass the time. The thought of Annie emerging from unconsciousness in an unfamiliar room surrounded by unfamiliar men who poke and probe at her to test her physical health is unbearable. After what she's been made to suffer, she needs to be with someone she knows.

She needs_ him_.

So on the third day, when he's given the go-ahead to visit her, it's all he can do not to lock the door behind him and hug her so tightly, she breaks.

Annie sits upright on her bed, wearing a sterile off-white hospital gown that nearly matches the pale grey of her skin. Her sea green eyes fail to sparkle as they fixate on a particular spot on the wall ahead. It isn't until Finnick stands directly beside her that she can tear her eyes away.

Gazing upon her, Finnick feels tears come to his eyes. What has she become? What have they done to his poor Annie?

Though his eyes are blurred with tears, he manages a small smile to comfort her. "I told you so," he says with a quiet chuckle. "I said I'd get you out of there alive."

At the word 'alive', Annie's eyes are suddenly alert. She studies him inquisitively at first, but then her eyes dart wildly around the room.

"Where's Mace?" she asks, stricken with panic.

Finnick's heart sinks. Those weren't the first words he'd dreamed of hearing. Not even close.

"I… he's…" he stammers, looking over his shoulder for advice from the physician in the corner of the room. The doctor nods at Finnick, silently reminding him that it's best not to tell her yet. Wetting his lips, Finnick turns back to Annie. "I missed you so much."

His words fail to register. "Where is he?" she asks again.

He gasps out his next breath, desperate for her to show him recognition. "Annie," he says firmly. "It's Finnick. Your Finnick. It's me."

She frowns as though she's been hurt by his words. Pulling the sheet up higher on her chest, she says, "I want to see him."

"From District 4," Finnick continues, his voice shaky. "We grew up next door to each other. Remember?"

"Get Mace," she orders.

"We lived on the beach. You taught me how to tie knots. You used to sit with me at night when I couldn't sleep through the nightmares."

"Mace!" she calls, shying away from Finnick.

Lip quivering, he goes on, "And when your name was called on Reaping Day, I knew I had to go with you. I knew I had to make sure you came out of the Arena. Because without you…" He shakes his head, the idea incomprehensible. He finishes weakly, "Annie, please remember me."

Annie softens at his plea. Still clutching the sheet to her chest, she asks, "He's dead, isn't he?"

He has to be honest with her, despite the doctor's orders. So he nods meekly.

Her face contorts with such pain and loss that he looks again to the physician for help. Two women have entered the room quietly, dressed in scrubs. All three who observe stand on edge, ready to spring forward if necessary.

It won't be necessary. It's his Annie.

"I do remember you," she tells him with gritted teeth. It's the first time she's acknowledged that she understands him, but it's with more rage than he'd anticipated. "You never liked Mace. You told me he had to die. _You_ sabotaged him!"

"What? No!" Finnick cries in response to her accusation. Bits are true, and that's what unsettles him.

"You killed him," she reasons, her jaw trembling as sobs wrack her body.

"No," Finnick says desperately, reaching forward to push back her hair. "Annie, that's not what happened. You have to know—"

"Don't!" she snaps, shirking from his touch and bringing her knees to her chest. He retracts his hand, holding both hands up in defence to show her he won't act against her will.

"I didn't kill Mace," Finnick says, though he hardly believes it even when it comes from his own lips.

"You weren't there," she says, a tear slipping from the corner of her eye. "You didn't protect me. _He_ did."

"Annie…"

"And then he died," she interrupts, "just like you said he would."

Finnick's breaths are short, his heartbeat speeding – how can he backtrack from here? How can he explain it to her when she's already reasoned it soundly for herself?

"Then I was all alone," she continues. "There was nobody to protect me. Where were you?"

He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "I couldn't be there," he says with a gulp. "I wanted to, but they wouldn't let me. Annie, I was watching. I made sure you had sponsors. Remember the parachutes? They were from me."

She shakes her head, her eyes wild. "You weren't there. You killed Mace. You killed him!"

"No. I didn't!"

"Then where is he?" she demands, her voice rising. "I want to see him! Take me to Mace!"

She continues to scream for the tribute she lost while Finnick stares helplessly. A hand touches his shoulder, urging him to step back. He's led out of the room as Annie calls out. Everything is in slow motion. He backs away helplessly as the physician steps forward, a needle in his hand.

"No! No more!" Annie cries as Finnick stumbles out the door. It closes on him, but he stares through the window.

One of the women holds a writhing Annie down as the physician injects the needle. Annie's sea green eyes are wide with fear. Panic. With the thick metal door closed, he can no longer hear her screams, but he sees her calling out. He presses his palms to the door, calling back to her.

Then her head falls back on the pillow. She whispers to herself before she goes limp. And those sea green eyes catch his through the window one more time before they close.

* * *

><p>Finnick can't bring himself to tell Annie the news of her mother's death. Not when she's this unstable. Not when she already hates him enough.<p>

"I can tell her," offers Elsie, who's visited the victor more often than Finnick on doctor's orders. "She'll go into one of those moods again where she stares at the wall and her eyes go dead. But I know she hears me."

"No," Finnick brushes off his co-mentor. "It has to be me. It has to come from someone she knows and trusts."

Elsie tilts her head awkwardly. "With all due respect, Odair, you're the one she doesn't trust right now."

He knows that well enough – it's apparent in the way she holds the sheets up to her neck when he walks in the room and continually checks over his shoulder to make sure the doctors are still there to protect her from him – still, it hurts to hear it from someone else's lips.

Finnick has learned that the doctors are showing Annie clips from the Games to jog her memory. They say it's to help her sort out reality from her mind's own creations. They say it's for her own good and for Finnick's, too – when she trusts him again, he can take her home safely. Over and over, they make her watch clips of the Bloodbath. Mace's decapitation. The tribute who lunged after her in a meadow and who was blown to smithereens. He doesn't know if it's helping – she still distrusts him on instinct – but from studying her through a window as she watches, he learns her new habits. When the cannons boom, she covers her ears with her hands. Sometimes she squeezes her eyes shut in pain only to have the physicians ask her to open them again. And then there are times when she's so saturated in reality that she has to find a way out. That's when her sea green eyes turn dull and dead. The physicians try to call her back – once, even by using a small electric shock, which sent Finnick into a fit of fury that had him pounding on the windows and screaming for them to stop – but they can't.

When she's gone, she's gone.

He has to be re-introduced to Annie upon each visit, as if starting over fresh will gain her trust. Sometimes it's the doctors who introduce him, other times it's Elsie. No matter who has the honours, Finnick hates it all the same. He hates that others are interfering in what used to belong so sacredly to Annie and himself. He's sure that if he could just get five minutes alone with her, he could remind her what they mean to each other. That the Capitol is the enemy, not him. If he could just bring her back to the beaches of District 4, she'd remember.

Panem waits impatiently for a few words or even a wave from its newest victor. Bright lights, big crowds and open spaces are three things guaranteed to terrify Annie, so Finnick and Elsie make frequent appearances in her place and give interviews reporting on her progress.

"She's doing a lot better," Finnick lies to Caesar Flickerman. "She was very dehydrated when she was pulled from the Arena, as you can imagine. The side-effects of dehydration are what's really held her back these past few days. But she's regaining her strength and she asked me to let the Capitol know that she's looking forward to returning later this year on her Victory Tour."

The crowd cheers. With a chuckle, Flickerman leans in and says, "I think they're dying to know whether _you'll_ be returning, as well."

Finnick forces a charming smile. "Wouldn't miss it, Caesar," he says, gulping down the bile that's risen in his throat.

Afterwards, while Annie watches the most horrific moments of her life over and over in a dark room with no one to comfort her, Finnick signs his celebrity signature over and over and takes pictures with fanatic Capitol citizens. It doesn't make sense to him. He's certainly not doing Annie any favours.

He spots a greying, wrinkling man one day across the street from the Training Center. The man leans against a lamppost, crunching the rim of his hat in his hands as he stares mournfully at the crowd surrounding Panem's most beloved victor. Finnick catches his eye and gives a subtle nod of acknowledgement.

When the grey haze of the Capitol skies turns to black, Finnick sneaks out of the Training Center and hopes the man still waits.

He finds Wren Cresta in the alleyway behind a bar, slumped against the wall with a flask in hand. He approaches the man and helps him to a standing position.

"Thank you, my boy," Wren says, patting him on the shoulder. "Thank you for bringing her home. My debt to you will never be paid."

Annoyed, Finnick runs a hand through his hair and stares down the alley. "I didn't do it for you," he mutters.

Wren pauses, taking stock of his words. He swirls the hat in his hands like it's a steering wheel. "I see," he says weakly. "How is she?"

Finnick begins to repeat what he'd said earlier to Caesar Flickerman, but Wren interrupts.

"The truth, please, son."

A cat howls in the distance as a bar owner emerges from the back door to dump a box of empty bottles. He eyes them warily before retreating.

"Not good," Finnick tells him when they're alone again. "Not eating well, not drinking enough. She's lost five or ten pounds and her skin is grey. The doctors feed her through a tube most of the time."

Wren nods, gulping nervously. "And mentally?"

"Even worse," is all Finnick can manage.

"Yes, of course," Wren's voice cracks. "My sweet Annie, she wasn't made for this."

"Poppy killed herself," Finnick adds without remorse. Whether or not Wren helped him get Annie out of the Arena, he can't forget that the man abandoned his family.

"Yes," Wren repeats, clenching his hat so tightly that Finnick knows it won't ever be the same shape. He averts his eyes. "Yes, I was told."

"You don't care?" he asks contemptuously.

Wren considers his words before meeting Finnick's eyes, unafraid despite the boy's towering figure. "Son, you must know I've thought myself despicable every day since I left. And now, after all this, it's all I can do not to wade into the sea right after my wife."

"So why don't you?" Finnick prompts, the harshness of his words cutting like a knife.

"Because someone has to watch over her," Wren replies, gesturing to the Training Center in which Annie sleeps. "Especially now that she's a victor. You've no idea the things the Capitol will – well, perhaps you do, Mr. Odair."

Finnick isn't sure if it's because he feels sorry for the man or because he's willing to try anything, but with a heaving sigh, he says, "Look. She's unstable right now, but… you want to see her? It might… it might even help her, to see your face. She might remember."

Wren can only shake his head in refusal.

"She loves you," Finnick points out. "She's your daughter."

Wren wets his lips. "And as her father, that's why I'm entrusting her to the care of the man who loves her most."

He looks pointedly at Finnick, who stares back with hardened eyes.

"You'll stay with her, won't you?" he asks. "You'll keep her safe?"

Finnick gulps, replying with conviction, "As long as I live."

"You should know," Wren says quickly before Finnick walks away, "Snow isn't happy with her victory. He's pressing the doctors to get her to make a public appearance. Crane is under investigation. But Snow's not one to give up and move on. Now that she's won, he needs to make some use of her."

"What does that mean?" Finnick asks, struggling to keep his voice steady.

Wren holds back, but shakes his head. "Keep her safe," he repeats. "Watch over her."

Then he disappears into darkness down the alleyway.

Finnick tiptoes back into the Training Center and visits the medical unit. Through the window, he watches Annie as she sleeps, curled into a ball on her side. He watches her shoulders rise and fall as she breathes, the gentle movements of her lips as she whispers to herself. Then her leg delivers a harsh kick. Her brows knot. She rolls over onto her back. Then onto her other side. Another kick. She rips off the sheets. And then she screams. At first, it's just a shout. But then it's Mace's name, over and over and over, even after the nurses rush in to calm her down.

Finnick watches until tears spring to his eyes and he has to turn away. She'll never get better, only worse. The Capitol can't bring her back. He's furious with himself for even letting them try.

In the morning, he'll visit with Snow himself. Come hell or high water, she'll see blue skies once more.

He'll make sure of it.

* * *

><p>Snow is a busy man, but when Finnick storms the President's Mansion the following day and demands to be seen with the level-headed Elsie in tow, they only have to wait three hours before Snow invites them to his office. The stuttering Oslo Busby is there, along with Radman and two other thick, snarling men who are not to be trifled with.<p>

Finnick and Elsie sit themselves side-by-side at the end of a long, glossed table. They exchange a glance – Elsie reluctant, Finnick unyielding.

"Mr. Odair, so nice to see you again. Your extended stay is quite the treat for the Capitol," Snow says, his tone light. He ignores Elsie just as Finnick ignores Snow's henchmen. When it comes down to it, it's just the two of them: Odair vs. Snow.

And Finnick isn't fooled by his pretence. "Well, it ends today," he replies. "Tomorrow at the latest. We're taking Annie back to District 4."

"I see," Snow says, seemingly amused by Finnick's conviction. "And the physicians support this?"

"It's what's best for her," Finnick continues, avoiding his question. "Nothing is familiar to her here."

Snow takes a sip of water, mulling over Finnick's words. The heavy silence pounds in Finnick's eardrums.

"Not even yourself, Mr. Odair?" Snow asks, feigning surprise. "One would think you'd be familiar to Miss Annie after the sweet little love you cultivated back in your home district."

Finnick glares at him, sizzling with rage at the implication that they've been watched all this time. Snow keeps all his secrets in the palm of his hand, ready to throw them if necessary.

"Then again, you've been receiving rave reviews from your patrons this visit. Perhaps you and Miss Annie have had a falling out. Pity," Snow muses, "but young love doesn't last forever."

Out of the corner of his eye, Finnick sees Elsie shift nervously beside him. Though he's boiling, he grinds his teeth and announces, "She'll be coming home with us. Today."

Snow sighs, leaning back in his chair. "I'm afraid not. It's in Miss Annie's best interests that we keep her under the supervision and care of Capitol physicians."

"You don't know her best interests," Finnick replies. Elsie squeezes his knee to remind him to keep calm. "What's best for her is to go home. Get away from this place. She needs to forget."

"Annie Cresta is mentally unstable," Snow says, his voice eerily light. "She will not have the care she needs in District 4."

"That's not up to you to determine," Finnick argues.

"Nor is it up to you," Snow bites back. "You may return to District 4, Mr. Odair, but Miss Annie will remain in the Capitol where she can receive the best care available."

Finnick's nostrils are flaring as he declares, "Then I'm staying, too. And she won't be living in that medical ward. She needs air. And light. She'll live with me."

"I'm afraid that's not an option," Snow says. "Disregarding the fact that it's certainly not prescribed by doctors, you do not have a home in the Capitol. As a frequent visitor, you hold much more allure and mystery than as a permanent resident."

In other words: you're a marketable good, Finnick Odair, and we know how best to market you.

Oslo's eyes dart around the room from speaker to speaker while Radman's teeth are bared in a chilling smile as he stares into Finnick's eyes.

Finnick will not let himself be intimidated. "If she stays, I stay with her."

"Have you asked Miss Annie her opinion, Mr. Odair?" Snow asks. "I understand she won't speak to you. She believes you to be the cause of her tribute partner's death. Perhaps she doesn't wish for you to stay."

"That's why she needs to go home," Finnick reasons. "She's confused here. Watching the Games over and over is only making it worse."

"She doesn't have a home anymore," Snow says, throwing out another argument. "No family – not after her mother's tragic death. She needs to stay in the Capitol where she can be monitored."

Finnick opens his mouth to argue when Snow interjects.

"She's like her mother," he says, leaning forward on the table as though the secret is just between himself and Finnick. With a smile so jarring, it jangles Finnick's nerves, Snow adds, "Predisposed to madness."

"She's not mad!" Finnick cries, making a move to rise from the table. Elsie tugs on his arm to keep him seated, placing a shaky hand on his shoulder.

Snow leans back, casually throwing out, "She's unfit to re-enter society."

"You don't know anything!"

"Are you suggesting that most educated physicians in all of Panem made a wrongful diagnosis?"

"I'm suggesting that she's being brainwashed," Finnick seethes. "That you're instructing them to do all they can to keep her as far-removed as possible. And you're doing it to punish _me_."

At that, Snow chuckles. "Mr. Odair, why would I have reason to punish you?"

"You don't," Finnick answers haughtily, "but you punish me all the same."

Snow's lips curl into another evil smile. "My, my," he breathes, "you care a great deal for the girl, don't you? More so than I suspected – especially with your pick of the Capitol's most desirable citizens."

Finnick clenches his teeth, staring the man down.

"Of course, I can see why," Snow continues, raising his eyebrows in thought. "She's quite ravishing, isn't she? I see what interests you about her. So lovely, but so – what's the word? So _empty_." He pauses for a moment before remarking, "It seems the Capitol has made its mark on her after all."

Finnick frowns, wondering what he means – and then he's taken back to the eve of the Hunger Games. The last night he spent with Annie.

"_Such a wonderful place_," she'd said, staring out the window at the Capitol below. "_But everything here is so empty_."

And suddenly, Finnick is enraged like never before to discover that his most private moments – the things he holds most dear – have never fully belonged to him. He has always been watched. His blood bubbles as it rises, his breath coming in short bursts.

"Perhaps the fair Annie would do well in your line of work?" Snow suggests airily.

It's all Finnick needs to fly over the edge. He bursts from his chair, slamming his fist onto the table. "Don't you dare! Don't you even think it!"

The nervous Oslo Busby flinches while Radman and the other brutes charge forward to grasp him. Snow holds up his hand to stop them.

Pointing a threatening finger at Snow, Finnick says with conviction, "I'll die before you have her." He shrugs Elsie off when she tries to calm him.

In amusement, Snow replies, "Oh, that won't be necessary."

His refusal to take Finnick seriously only further infuriates the victor. He steps out from the table and lunges for Snow, his hands yearning to wring the man's neck. "You won't touch her!" he yells, apprehended by Radman and then by another brute. They wrench his arms behind his back, but he continues to scream. "I'll kill you! I'll kill your whole family! Don't forget who you made me to be, Snow! I'm a killer!"

"Yes, you are," Snow agrees coolly. Finnick sees the third henchman approaching with a shocking device. He grunts and struggles in Radman's grasp, unable to release his hands. "You can threaten my Head Gamemaker, Mr. Odair, but you will not threaten me."

Finnick hears Elsie trying to reason with the brutes in the background, but with Radman's heavy breathing in his ear and Snow's snakelike eyes fixated on his, he can't focus.

"Remember who runs this country, Mr. Odair," Snow continues. "Remember your place. I don't want it to come to this again."

Snow nods to his henchman, who extends the electric device to Finnick's neck despite his thrashing. The second it touches his skin, a volt of electricity shoots through his body. It's so startling and so harsh that he cries out in pain, his legs giving out on him. But he's not permitted to collapse – Radman has him in a stronghold.

With only a few seconds to recover, he's shocked again at a higher voltage. His body convulses and spasms, the pain so intense, he's sure it will never go away. He is heavy and on fire, unable to think of anything but the excruciating pain over Elsie's muffled screams in the distance.

"One more, shall we?" he hears Snow murmur. "Just for good measure."

He doesn't have time to brace himself before the shock comes again, like a thousand bees stinging every pore in his skin at once. Radman releases his arms and he promptly falls to the ground, jerking his limbs and shaking uncontrollably.

After blacking out for a few moments – or perhaps a few minutes, it's hard to say – he's roused by Radman, who pulls his trembling body up and throws him carelessly onto a chair. Finnick can barely keep his head up.

"Miss Annie may go home with you, Mr. Odair," Snow says, carrying on their meeting as though nothing out of the ordinary has taken place. Nauseous, Finnick struggles to remember the reason he came. "But I will require something from you in return."

Woozy, he doesn't reply.

"You will mentor for all Hunger Games from this point forward," Snow states. "Annie will attend bi-weekly sessions with a Capitol-prescribed physician. If she is found to be regressing, she will be brought back to the Capitol. If she is found to improve, she will mentor just as all victors do – and if the girl has any bidding patrons, she will be expected to perform just as you are regardless of your protests. You're not in a position to bargain, Mr. Odair, and I'm being far too kind as it is in allowing her to return to your district. I trust that in the future, you will not forget where you stand. I will not be so forgiving. I need not remind you that while you are most popular in the Capitol, you are by no means essential."

Finnick's mind is whirling, unable to wrap around Snow's words, his crafted caveats equally dangerous. All he can understand is that Annie is coming home with him. His Annie.

She'll see those open skies again, feel the sun beating down on her neck and the sand squishing between her toes.

Feeling electric - from the voltage or from Snow's permission, he can't quite be sure - Finnick leans heavily on Elsie's shoulder as Radman escorts them from the President's Mansion. In the vehicle, he fades in and out of consciousness on the way to the Training Center. His head lolls to the side, mouth agape, eyes cloudy.

He's barely cognizant as Elsie mutters, "You're a damn fool, Finnick Odair. A damn fool to fall in love."

* * *

><p>President Snow is true to his word, and the next morning, Finnick, Elsie, and Annie board a hoverplane and speed off toward District 4. They're scheduled to arrive by mid-afternoon.<p>

While Elsie has been a supportive co-mentor, she can't contain her impatience any longer. Eager to get back to her husband and family, she stares excitedly out the window and joins the pilot up front, as if her idle chatter will encourage him to take the hoverplane up a notch.

Finnick is weak from the after-effects of yesterday's electric shocks. His movements are slower and every so often a teeth-gritting muscle spasm occurs, but he hides his pain and weariness from Annie. From here on out, he's determined that she will only know happiness. He owes her that.

But there's one tragedy he must share with her first: the news of Poppy's death. It has to come from him, and it has to come now.

Annie sits staring out the window, hands folded neatly in her lap and a blank expression on her face. After a spasm in his calf, Finnick joins her in the next seat, placing his forearms on the armrests. Annie doesn't budge, though he sees her eyes flicker to him and then back to the window.

"You might be hot when we step off the plane," he remarks, noting Annie's blazer and dark pants. "It'll be pretty warm in the district this time of year."

He shuffles in his seat, digging around in the pocket of his khakis. He finds what he's looking for and holds out a brass key. "This is yours. It's the key to the eleventh house in the Victor's Village. I was just holding onto it for you."

Calmly, Annie takes the key from him and holds it tightly in her hand. Again, she looks out the window.

Finnick stares at her feeling a helplessness he has grown used to. A pang of yearning strikes his chest, longing for just one more glimpse of Annie's smile. The warm crinkles around her eyes.

With a sad sigh, he tries again, leaning over the armrest to stare out the window with her. "You know what helped me after I won the Games?" he asks, not expecting an answer. Annie doesn't move a muscle, so he continues, "Being with you. Everything changes when you win – your house, your lifestyle, the way people treat you. Your mind thinks differently than it did before and no matter what you do, it always brings you back to the Arena… you start to question everything you have, all the people you know, until one day, you have yourself convinced that none of it's real. Every hug, every kiss, every cheer – it's not because they love you, it's because they're afraid of you. Your mind warps everything because you can't trust yourself anymore."

Though Annie stays still, he sees her eyes lower to her hands. He knows he has her attention.

"I've been there, Annie, and I know you remember that. But you were right back then – I never wanted to be alone, I just wanted someone I didn't have to question. And that was you. You were the only one who stayed the same after my Games. You helped me sort out what was real and what wasn't. Remember all the nights you found me on the beach? Do you remember how you'd sit with me so I wouldn't have to be alone?"

Annie gulps, giving a slight nod of her head.

"That's what I'll be for you," he tells her. "I'll be here to remind you what's true and what's inside your head. I won't lie to you. But you have to trust me... just like I trusted you."

Pushing her hair behind her ear, Annie meets his eyes for the first time. He holds onto the connection as fiercely as he can.

Now comes the hard part.

"Annie, your mom… she won't be there when you get off the plane," he says.

"My mom?" Annie repeats, confused.

He nods, taking a shaky breath. "She couldn't bear it," he says, voice cracking with emotion. "You were all she had left, and watching you in the Games… it was too much."

Annie seems to comprehend the meaning behind his words. He can almost see the wheels cranking in her brain as tears well in her eyes. "That's true?" she asks, barely above a whisper.

"That's true," he repeats, brows knotting with emotion.

A tear slips from her eye and rolls slowly down her cheek. "Then who do I have left?"

Finnick swallows, wanting so badly to wipe the tears from her eyes and shelter her in his arms. "We have each other," he tells her firmly. "Just like before. Just like always."

* * *

><p>The hoverplane lands in the meadow behind the Victor's Village. There's no parade, like there was for Finnick – Annie's several days late for her homecoming and the district has had to return to its daily life.<p>

It's better this way, Finnick thinks. Overwhelming Annie in her fragile state might tip her over the edge, and another piece of her loosely-connected being would be flung into the madding crowd, never to be recovered.

The few faces awaiting them belong to the residents of the Victor's Village. Elsie's the first out of the plane, bounding into the arms of her husband with cries of relief. Those greying hairs of hers shine in the sun, and Finnick sees her in new light – she appears fifteen, not fifty.

With a gulp, he holds open the latch of the plane and says to Annie, "Ladies first."

Her face shows trepidation, but Annie bravely steps into the sunshine, clutching the rail for support. The victors and their families give a light round of applause, though from the quick rise and fall of her shoulders and the white of her knuckles, it's clear to Finnick that Annie would rather be back in the medical ward than center of attention in a crowd of unfamiliar faces.

Finnick pokes his head out and follows Annie at a safe distance down the steps. He breathes in the salty air of his district, anxious to lay eyes on the sea but just as happy with the bold blues in the sky.

Annie halts on the bottom stair, reluctant to take that last step onto the grass. The victors, waiting expectantly, stop their clapping.

Annie can't take that final step. Finnick sees her leg lifting, ready to climb backwards into the hoverplane.

He approaches from behind and places a supportive hand on her shoulder. "I'm right here," he murmurs into her ear. "We're home."

The mention of _home_ seems to comfort her, and she takes a few hesitant steps forward.

All eyes are on Annie in the weighted silence. Finnick waits behind her, his hopes hanging in a precarious balance.

Looking old and tired and alive, Mags wobbles forward using her cane. The stroke has left her speech garbled and sometimes nonsensical, but Finnick understands every word as she says to Annie, "My dear. Welcome home." She gestures Annie forward, holding out her arms for a hug.

Finnick, who's prepared for Annie to balk, is floored when she embraces the old woman. His love and gratitude for Mags multiplies tenfold… even if he wishes it was him in her place.

As Mags provides Annie with the comfort and safety she's so longed for, Finnick is greeted and congratulated by his neighbours. But he doesn't feel triumphant at all. In fact, failure sinks deeper and deeper into his skin.

It's a quieter, duller reunion than Finnick expected, and for that he's grateful, if not surprised. It seems that the victors, together with the district, sense that Annie's victory has lost her just as much. After just a few minutes, the crowd disperses as the sun begins to dip.

"Come," Mags says to Annie. "Dinner's ready for you. Cracked crab and artichokes. I bet you've missed fresh seafood."

Annie nods with a small smile and lets Mags take her arm. After a few steps, the old lady looks over her shoulder at Finnick, who stands alone in the meadow wondering what to do with himself.

"You too, boy," she says, motioning him over. "Did you think I'd send you home without dinner your first night back?"

He didn't intend on being scolded upon his welcome, and certainly not in front of Annie. But the newest victor is amused by Mags, and Finnick can't help snorting with laughter through his frown.

He marches toward Mags and gives her a kiss on the cheek. "Boy, did I miss you," he says, flashing her a charming smile.

Affectionately, Mags pats his cheek. "Now run ahead and start the stove. At the pace I'm moving these days, I'll be there in about an hour."

This earns a snicker from Annie, who knows that Mags' house is only a hundred yards away.

It's he who wants to make her laugh, but for now, Mags will do. So he leaves Annie with the only person he trusts and heads down the street, hoping against all hope that home will bring her back to him.

* * *

><p>Dinner is mostly a quiet affair, though Mags tries to lighten the mood by regaling them with the district's gossip. Annie eats a few bites of crab and can't digest anymore, her stomach no longer adjusted to solid foods after starving in the Arena and being fed through a tube under physical and psychiatric care. She avoids Finnick's eyes, staring mostly at her plate.<p>

"I think I'd like to sleep now," she tells Mags.

"Of course, dear," Mags replies.

"May I go home?" she asks.

Both Finnick and his mentor know she's not talking about her house in the Victor's Village. Mags replies, "Oh, no, dear. Finnick will air it out for you and get you settled tomorrow. For tonight, I've got the guest bedroom all prepared. Just this morning, I asked Qais and Jarvis to fetch a few things from your home on the beach." Though Annie's reluctant, she doesn't have time to protest as Mags holds out her hand and says, "Come. I'll take you up and help you with your things. Finnick will clear the table."

Helpless and unwanted, Finnick putters around in the kitchen for what seems like hours, but can't be more than thirty minutes. He's glad Mags talked Annie into staying – he can't stand the thought of her sleeping alone in her giant new house. All the same, only he knows the demons that plague Annie at night. If she wakes screaming, only he would be strong enough to keep her limbs from thrashing as he whispers to her that she's safe.

Mags rejoins him, and together they sit in the living room – she quilting, he sipping on hot water and lemon – discussing in hushed voices the things that have transpired. He tells her about his mother the Avox, Wren the Capitol spy, and Snow's conditions for bringing Annie home. In turn, Mags tells him about the mood following Annie's victory and her mother's untimely death.

Quilting is an activity that Mags has picked up in stroke recovery, and she focuses solely on her needles as she remarks, "It's been hard on you. I see the struggle and grief in the dark circles under your eyes and I know you don't intend to part with her again."

Finnick wets his lips, unable to argue with that.

"I made a bed for you, too," she continues, "but you must know that it will take some time. She won't seek comfort from you until she feels she can trust you again. And she won't trust you until she can work through her own memories: what's real and what's been warped."

Capitol doctors have prescribed numerous medications for Annie and tactics to help her cope, but nothing makes more sense to Finnick than Mags' prescription. It's like he said to Annie earlier on the hoverplane: there are things that are real, and things that one's mind perceives to be real. Without another's help, there's no separating the two.

He kisses Mags goodnight before retiring upstairs in the bedroom next to Annie's. He leaves the door ajar and sleeps lightly, prepared to rise upon the sound of kicking legs under bed sheets.

* * *

><p>He's in the room before she starts screaming. Her restlessness rang through the walls. He lights the lamp on her nightstand and places a gentle hand on her shoulder, wincing when her body struggles and throws him off.<p>

She wakes with a start, her eyes wild and afraid.

"Where is he?" she asks, her voice trembling.

"Annie," he breathes, "Annie, it's me."

"Where is he? Where's Mace?"

"You were having a nightmare," he explains.

Covering her hands with her lips, Annie's eyes spill with tears as she releases a sob. "Finnick," she whimpers, gazing upon him with sadness.

His chest puffs to hear his name from her lips. "Yes," he nods fervently. "It's Finnick. I'm here."

"Why did you kill him?" she asks, her voice breaking.

"What?" His heart splinters. "Annie, I—"

"He only wanted to protect me," she cries, "and you took him away."

Finnick knows that Mace's first concern was not to protect Annie, but it's not the time to convince her otherwise. As it is, he's unsure how to argue when Annie has built up her own proof in her mind.

"Annie," Finnick tells her firmly, "It wasn't me. I didn't kill him."

"You made her do it," she insists. "The one with the bloody axe and the thirsty smile."

"Who told you that?" he asks. "Was it the doctors in the Capitol?"

Her face crumbles as she backs away from him in fear. "The trees told me," she says, another sob wracking her body. "They whispered to me in the wind. They said you took him away so I'd be alone."

Face contorted in confusion, Finnick asks, "The trees? Trees don't talk."

"Yes they did!" she cries, covering her hands with her ears. Shutting her eyes tightly, she says, "They said you'd lie to me. They showed me how you pretend. All those girls in the Capitol. Pretend, pretend. You're not real."

"Annie," he pleads, grasping her wrists in his hands and prying them away from her ears. "Annie, that's not true."

She's nearly hyperventilating now, shaking under his touch and recoiling into herself. Her hair hangs in loose tangles over her shoulders, giving her an even wilder appearance. "Don't," she begs. "Don't make me. I won't kill them."

With every new phrase that flies from her mouth, Finnick's chest deflates, his heart snaps, his breath escapes him. If a monster is what he'd become when he won the Games, it's nothing compared to what she thinks of him now.

"Listen to me!" he says, raising his voice and forcing her to look him in the eyes. Tears run down her face as she gasps for breath. "I'm not going to hurt you. I would _never _hurt you. I want to tell you something, and I want you to listen."

She shakes her head frantically.

"Annie, they're all things you know. We'll go slow. Just listen."

A sob escapes her throat.

"You are Annie Cresta," he tells her, holding her wrists in place. She's so frightened of him that she turns her head, squeezing her eyes shut. "You are seventeen years old. Is that right?"

With another sob, she nods.

"You live in District 4."

She keeps nodding.

"I'm Finnick Odair. We used to live next door to each other."

Another nod.

"Every since you were young, you've known how to net."

Nod.

"And swim."

Nod.

He loosens his grip on her wrists when he feels her tendons relax.

"This year, you were reaped for the Hunger Games."

Annie gulps. Taking a deep breath, she opens her eyes. Turning her head towards Finnick, she nods again.

"You won."

She licks her lips.

"I was your mentor. It was my job to keep you alive. Is that right?"

"Yes," she says.

With a heavy sigh, he says, "I had to get you out of there."

"You killed Mace," she offers.

"I didn't kill Mace. Another tribute killed Mace."

She scrunches her nose in confusion, a fresh batch of tears welling in her eyes. "That's all I know. You killed the one who protected me. I saw you kill before. You had a trident. You killed them all."

She's thinking back to his own Games, and suddenly, he's catapulted into his own personal nightmare.

"I-I…" he stammers.

"Finnick," she whispers, "your eyes were so cold. You didn't even blink."

* * *

><p>Mags finds him in the morning, knees pulled to his chest as he rocks himself back and forth on the porch. Dried tears stain his cheeks, illuminated as the sun rises in a brilliant orchestra of pastels.<p>

"She hates me," are the only words he can muster, his voice barely a whisper.

"But you love her," is Mags' sober reply. "So what else matters?"

* * *

><p><strong>Gosh dangit. I can't lie, this chapter ran far, far away from me and I'm unsure whether I prefer the outcome or my original direction. Either way, I haven't been thrown off-course and I know where I'm going from here, so we're all good.<strong>

**Hope you kids are having a wonderful and sunny weekend! Catch you all next Sunday.**


	11. whatever you do, don't let go

**Chapter 11:** _70__th__ Annual Hunger Games _

It's a sunny, humid day in District 4 as Finnick makes his way down the beaten path to the District Courtyard.

"Finnick! Over here!" calls an admirer. A girl not more than fifteen perches on the wooden fence along the pathway, giggling with two of her friends as he gives them a glance. He waves, but does not join them.

Many in the district grant him space and privacy. To most, his victory and Capitol favouritism are old news, but every so often – especially on these public walks to the District Courtyard – he's targeted by the wealthy who see the Games as honourable and his victory as triumphant.

He hates these walks to the Courtyard, but he's determined that Annie will always have a familiar face awaiting her when she's released from her bi-weekly therapy sessions in the medical center.

"Lookin' good, Odair," remarks a passer-by with yards of netting thrown over his shoulder.

"Thanks," Finnick murmurs under his breath, if only to be polite. It's something he's never gotten used to: known by all, recognizing so few.

He slips through the bustling Courtyard mostly unseen, darting into the medical center and waiting in a chair outside room 034. Within a few minutes, the door opens. Out walks Annie and, behind her, Dr. Ablesworth. He's a middle-aged educated man whose job is to make Annie say crazy things that he can report back to the Capitol. Most of the time, it's fairly simple – when Annie emerges from the room blocking her ears, muttering to herself or squeezing her eyes shut, Finnick knows the doctor has done his job.

On one hand, Finnick loathes him. Twice a week, he takes Annie right back into the Arena, and any progress that Finnick has made with her is nullified. On the other, Annie has thus far been deemed unfit to mentor in the Games, and for that, Finnick owes him.

Ablesworth must have gone easy on her today, for Annie's eyes are not red-rimmed and her hands do not shake. The doctor gives Finnick a nod of acknowledgement before retreating – after all these months of meeting Annie after her sessions, Ablesworth knows simply to escort Annie to the door and then leave them to one another.

"How are you?" Finnick asks Annie as they leave the medical center side-by-side.

She nods, unwilling as always to discuss her sessions further.

Finnick doesn't prod. If there's anything he's learned, it's that Annie does not respond to force or urgency.

"Will you come with me to the marketplace?" he asks her. "Mags asked me to pick up two pounds of snapper."

Though Annie doesn't reply, he knows she hears him. She's quiet today, but fairly calm. Sometimes she chats idly with him on their walks home. Other times, it's a struggle just to get her there – her therapy sessions bring back warped memories of her mentor killing her tribute partner and seeing Finnick after the session sends her into a fit.

The fish market is busy despite the humidity. It's the season for blue crab and speckled trout, with shrimpers also highly in demand. He takes Annie's hand for the purpose of weaving in and out of the many bodies. She doesn't squeeze back, but she doesn't recoil, and he accepts that neutrality is the most he'll get from her today. Better than fear and loathing.

They meet Roscoe Roe at his regular booth, sweating and cursing the weather.

"Hotter than the bowels of hell out here," he laments. "'Fraid my fish are rotting."

"I wouldn't say that too loud," Finnick chuckles, handing him a few bills. "Business might slow down."

"Business be damned," Roscoe grunts. "Can't keep up in this old body. And with the crowd seeing Odair and his beauty at my booth, I'll be on my feet all day."

Finnick glances at Annie for her reaction. She gives him a small smile, encouraging him to laugh at Roscoe's antics.

"Well, you're welcome," he says, accepting the packaged snapper. Under his breath, he adds, "You old crank."

When he and Annie turn around, there's a line-up at Roscoe's stall. Just as the coot predicted, their presence made business boom. They take one last look at Roscoe to see him cursing under his breath.

Annie giggles, and her amusement brings a smile to Finnick's face. He relishes the moments where her eyes are alive.

"He'll be fine," Finnick assures her with another chuckle. "You would have thought we'd be doing him a favour."

In better spirits than before, they leave the fish market on the opposite end. It's a more scenic route to walk to the Victor's Village along the beaches and then up.

There are boats pulling into the harbour, some commercial, some private, all with loads containing their catch of the day. The beautiful weather and calm seas have made it ideal for the busiest season, and fishermen work hard to keep those at the marketplace in business. Theirs is a well-oiled machine: they dock their boats and tie them, efficiently emptying the cargo in the wharf for gutting and cleaning.

As he and Annie walk past, Finnick spots a head of vaguely familiar bronzed hair. The man is squatted as his fingers work effortlessly to tie his boat, knot after knot after seamless knot.

Fletcher was always proficient when it came to knots. He learned that from their father.

He stands, running a hand through his thick, matted hair. He uses his shirt to wipe his forehead of sweat and calls out an order to a fellow crew member. When he spins around, his muted grey eyes lock with Finnick's. The exchange lasts only a few seconds.

"Fletch!" His name is called and he breaks the connection, returning to his daily work. The life he was born to live. The life Finnick should have been living.

Finnick hasn't seen his older brother since the day their mother was taken. He's heard news – Fletcher lives in a small house not far from the wharf. Last year he wed Kessie Frey, a fisherman's daughter, and recently he's heard that she's expecting. They're a match made in heaven. Or the sea.

And after just one glance, he feels those familiar pangs of envy for his brother. Fletcher lives a quiet life doing meaningful work beside the girl he loves. He doesn't know how lucky he is, how much his younger brother would sacrifice for that kind of life. Yet Finnick only sees long-standing resentment in Fletcher's eyes. Resentment of his younger brother's life; of what he perceives to be _fortune _but what Finnick knows to be pure hell.

"I want to visit my mother," Annie announces, interrupting his painful thoughts.

Breaking from his trance, Finnick gives her a small smile. "Okay," he agrees. Every so often, they stop by Poppy's grave in one of the district's burial sites. Finnick pulls the weeds from the dirt that threaten to strangle the tombstone while Annie picks wildflowers and arranges them to her liking. She lays them in front of the stone and speaks a few soft words to her late mother.

Finnick hates visiting the cemetery. He hates to think of the dead. But for Annie, he'd do anything.

Today, he reminds Annie that he's carrying fish that will soon expire in the sun. She nods, assuring him she won't pick flowers today. She just wants to say hello.

He leaves her to it, hanging a few rows back. Privacy is scarce in Annie's life, and he gives it to her when he can. It makes her feel more human.

It's too hot for the graveyard today, and as Finnick scans the perimeter, he realizes they're alone. It's safe to leave Annie with her mother for a while, so he begins to wander down the rows, reading the inscriptions on the stones. Names, places, dates, quotes. Sadness and regret well in his stomach though the majority of deaths are people he knows not. When Finnick dies, he wants his body to be thrown to the sea. No longer will he be restricted to a place, a name or a history. He can float on: anonymous, free.

Before he knows it, he's at the grave of Leander Odair.

The stone is a pallid grey, inscribed: _Here lies Leander Odair. Husband, father, friend, fisherman_.

The words are so meaningless. They don't begin to describe the person lying six feet underneath, nor do they do justice to the circumstances surrounding his life and death.

He remembers why he never visits. The memory of his father is so much more than what's engraved in stone.

Still, a rectangular plot of dirt has been neatly carved and tended in front of his tombstone. In it are freshly planted bluebonnets and as he stares bleakly, Finnick knows that his brother has ensured that the grave is never without life or company.

There's a rustling in the grass behind him. Annie appears by his side, pensive as she examines the plot.

"I remember your father," she says thoughtfully. "After my dad left, he kept an eye on me when I went swimming in the ocean."

Finnick lowers his stare.

"When he died, your mother cried through the funeral. These deep, heavy sobs that probably exhausted her – but he must have been worth every tear."

He remembers that day, though it's something he normally keeps far-removed from his thoughts. Dixie's grief. Fletcher's anger. His own hopelessness, fear, and recognition that death could become anyone he loved at any time.

"They say he died in a boating accident," Annie continues, her tone contemplative. She turns her head to look at Finnick. "Is that true?"

Training his eyes on the tombstone, he purses his lips and shakes his head.

Annie bites her lip and asks in a small voice, "How did he die, Finnick?"

A breeze blows by – the first movement of air he's felt all day.

"They killed him," he admits. He gulps, adding, "The Capitol."

Annie doesn't startle like he expects. Instead, she asks, "Why?"

He grinds his teeth, answering, "Because I didn't do what they wanted me to do. It's my fault."

He feels her gaze like he feels the sun beating down on the back of his neck, singeing his skin.

"They're bad, aren't they?" she asks.

Regretfully, he nods.

"They'd do anything to make you feel alone."

Truer words have never been spoken, and he wonders if Annie is expecting a reply or if she's simply making an offhanded remark. If the latter, it would be the first time she's voiced anything remotely negative about the Capitol since the Games. The first time she's thought independently, really.

He doesn't allow himself to get his hopes up. It's too painful to have them dashed again.

But then she slips her hand into his. Interlocks their fingers. Squeezes.

And as he stares into her eyes and a jolt of electricity surges through his body, his hope tips the scales.

* * *

><p>At first, after Finnick aired out Annie's house in the Victor's Village and helped her move all of her things, Annie insisted she was fine alone. He protested, but Mags told him he was in no position to impose anything on her. Annie wouldn't answer her door the following morning, so Finnick had to hook a rope to the upstairs balcony railing and scale the walls to barge into her house. He found her in her new bedroom, the sheets knotted on the bed, pillows scattered, Annie shuddering on the floor in the corner.<p>

She didn't protest to company after that.

Initially, it was Mags who slept over by Annie's request. The warped visions of Finnick killing Mace remained far too real to doubt, and Annie regarded him with suspicious, frightened eyes. After a month or so, it was clear that late nights spent consoling Annie were taking a heavy toll on Mags and her withered body. While Annie was convinced she could be on her own again, Finnick was adamant that she should not spend another night alone.

She would only allow him to sleep downstairs on the sofa at first. From the bottom of the stairs, he only knew that something was wrong when she began to cry out. Every night, he had to hold her hands in his and start from the beginning. _You are Annie Cresta. You live in District 4. I'm Finnick. I would never hurt you…_

After another month of torturous nightmares, she allowed him to move to a guest bedroom upstairs. From there, with the door open, he could hear her as soon as she began to writhe restlessly under the sheets. He could be by her side before she began to scream.

As for his sleeping arrangements, Finnick didn't much care as far as comfort was concerned. The sofa or the guest bed didn't make a difference – he'd sleep in the mud if she asked him to. It wouldn't matter, because after every episode in the middle of the night, he always ended up on the cushioned chair in the corner of her bedroom, where he'd doze fitfully until morning.

"Sometimes I hate you," she confesses one night after dreaming of the meadow rigged with landmines. The words cut right through his chest and sear him. Breath escapes him. He goes rigid in his chair across the room, hoping against all hope that she's dreaming again. Dreaming of someone else.

But the moon streams through the balcony window and casts a dim light on her face, and he sees her eyes wide open, staring unflinchingly at him.

"I wish you'd let me die in there," she says, adding faintly, "It would have been kinder."

Before she'd gone into the Arena, she'd asked him to be strong for her. Even in moments when he felt himself yearning to slip away, one fleeting memory of her face was all he ever needed to pull himself back to reality. To be strong for her through the brainwashing, the nightmares, the Capitol threats.

Despite the circumstances working against him, he's been strong. But it's these honest confessions that break him. They send his thoughts spinning so fast that they come to a grinding halt. Then he's gone, removed from the present moment. Lost.

He sits on the balcony with his legs dangling through the rails in the dark night and doesn't sleep a wink. Annie brings him a breakfast roll and a cup of tea at dawn, wrapping herself in her blanket as she sits beside him to watch the sun peek out above the horizon.

He accepts the meal with a meek smile, his throat cracked and dry like the walls of his heart.

"I'm sorry," he says in response to the previous night's confession.

"Sorry for what?" she asks, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"For my selfishness," he admits, staring into his mug of tea.

Silence hangs in the air. Annie bundles herself in the blanket and stares inquisitively.

"I barely spoke to you," she points out. "I didn't trust you. I made you sleep downstairs on a narrow sofa and you meet me at the medical center every week even when I'm unhappy to see you. No one asked you to do that, least of all me."

To keep himself from spitting out another apology, he stuffs the roll into his mouth and chews.

"You have everything," she continues. "You could be with anyone in the world. You could be happy. But instead, you make sure I'm warm and safe and protected. You never let me feel alone, not for one second, and I can see in your eyes that you've been alone every day. If you're selfish, then…"

Finnick lifts his head, meeting her eyes. Even though he doesn't feel like it, he manages a smirk. "Then what?" he prompts.

Annie returns a weary smile. "Then I don't want to meet the person who's selfless."

He sighs. Her words don't change the night before, but coupled with the rising sun, they inspire him.

"We could go fishing today," he suggests. "We could take out the boat and some bait. And you could tell me again how selfish I am."

This comment earns him a real smile from Annie and a jab in his ribs. "And how hilarious," she adds dryly.

"And how skilled."

Annie snorts. "And how pompous."

He pushes himself to his feet, ready to brave the day. "And how adored."

She takes his outstretched hand and he pulls her up as she retorts, "And how over-rated."

With no additional goading, he stands facing her and smiles. He has to be strong.

She smiles back, and he knows it's worth it.

* * *

><p>Being back in the Capitol reminds Finnick that, through and through, his heart is made of stone. His voice hardens again, crusted with cynicism and distaste – nothing like the soft, easy tones he adopts when speaking to Annie. His green eyes sparkle only in the fluorescent light, for there's nothing he can set his sights on to elicit any sort of feelings within him.<p>

"Take me," Ilyana whispers to him before taking his earlobe between her teeth and biting.

He grunts in response, hitching her leg around his waist and grinding against her. His eyes close instinctively, and he uses his age-old trick of closing off his mind to the experience. It doesn't change the hatred he feels for himself afterwards, but it's his coping mechanism for the here and now.

Ilyana is the chancellor of the Ministry of Interior Trade, largely overseeing the exchange of goods and services between the districts. If he pleases her this evening, there may be more use than ever for fishermen in District 4.

Once it's over, she gasps for breath and reaches for her purse on the nightstand. Her eyelashes are pink and long enough to reach her eyebrows. Finnick watches with curiosity as they flutter. She whispers to herself as her heart rate settles, blinking over and over as if she's sure she's dreaming.

"You must not tell a soul," she says worriedly. "If my husband were to find out, he'd make sure I was removed from the ministry." With a sidelong glance at Finnick, she adds, "And I daresay District 4 would not see a surge in its prime industry, so we can agree that secrecy benefits us both."

Finnick has no intention of blabbing his sexual liaisons to anybody, but with an arched eyebrow, he finds himself intrigued by her insistency.

"Why risk it with such high stakes?" he asks her, running a hand down her side to keep her attention.

Ilyana sits up, baring her chest without shame as she digs through her bag. "My marriage was one of convenience," she tells him. "Most unions of the upper class are. You wouldn't know, being a poor fisherman's son from District 4."

He ignores her unintentional jab at him and keeps his eyes on hers, pressing her to go on.

"And while I reap the social benefits, I find that my husband lacks appeal. Perhaps if he were younger or lost the roundness of his gut. Or if he had your smile…"

Finnick chews on his lip.

"This hurts no one," she continues, referencing their night under the sheets. "He won't find out and you've satisfied my appetite for the next month."

She does not mention Finnick at all, and he knows she sees him as nothing more than a prostitute, there by choice for her pleasure alone. She does not for a second consider that he has the ability to be hurt. Running a hand through his hair, he sits up on the bed and flashes her an annoyed glance. He wishes she'd cover up. Her skin is made of plastic, cold and rubbery to the touch, so white he suspects the pigment's been drained.

Pulling out a wad of bills from her bag, she asks, "What's your going rate these days?"

He's often paid for a job well done – the more he receives, the less he thinks of himself. But he always accepts their offers. It would be an insult to the women if he refused. If there's anything he's learned, it's that his patrons need to feel as though he's getting just as much out of it as they are.

Nothing is gained from monetary payment. He leaves feeling as much of a slave as when he arrived, stripped of his clothes, his body, his secrets. Snow owns them all.

Suddenly, Finnick wonders if it's possible to own some part of Snow in return.

"I'll let you off scot-free," he tells Ilyana, leaning back against the pillows. "There'll be no evidence, not a single bill missing from your wallet, if you'll loosen your lips for me."

"Loosen my lips?" she asks. "In what way?"

He puts on a show of racking his brains, finally coming to a conclusion. "Tell me what you know of Coriolanus Snow."

Ilyana pauses, eyeing him suspiciously. "Why should you care to know about him?"

He shrugs, meeting her eyes with bold indifference. "It's either that," he begins, and then points to the bills in her hands, "or the cash. Plus the fine jewellery around your wrist – to keep my mouth shut, of course. Will your dear husband notice it's missing?"

Eyes narrowed, Ilyana sneers. "You're playing a dangerous game, Odair."

"Likewise."

His sudden defiance confuses and irritates her. "Do you know who I am?"

"I do," he answers with a nod, "and that's why I'm asking. How long has he been in power?"

Wary of his curiosity, Ilyana leaves the bed and begins to dress herself. "Many years," she answers as she works. "More than thirty."

"Was he elected?" Finnick asks. "Or was the presidency passed down through the family?"

Ilyana gives him a sharp glare while buttoning her shaped blouse. "Neither."

Finnick frowns, deep in thought. "Then how did he ascend to power?"

"How do you think?"

He shrugs, genuinely at a loss. Snow is a popular, revered figure in the Capitol – he'd always assumed he was there by choice of the citizens.

She sits on the edge of the bed to strap on her glittered heels. "Ever heard of potassium cyanide?" she asks.

"No," he answers honestly. "What's that?"

She looks at him over her shoulder. "That, Mr. Odair," she says, grabbing her purse and slinging it over her shoulder, "is poison."

* * *

><p>He always relishes that first deep breath of salt and the sea as he steps off the hoverplane in District 4. Today is no different, but as he's unannounced, no one awaits him in the meadow. Only a moment is allotted to inhale the fresh air before he takes off down the quiet road of the Victor's Village.<p>

Finnick's first stop is his own home, where he unlocks the front door and throws his bag inside. That's all he has the patience for before he locks up again and heads across the street to Annie's. The sky is burnt orange in the late afternoon, and he reasons that Annie will be preparing dinner. Or knitting, a hobby she picked up from Mags to pass the time.

After several bouts of rapping on the door, he concludes that she's not home. Before he scales the walls of her house again to search for her, he decides to check in with Mags. The elderly victor promised to watch over his girl in his absence, so in all likelihood, she's keeping Annie company.

He knocks on Mags' door and doesn't wait for a reply before turning the knob and entering.

"Mags?" he calls. "You in here?"

He hears her faint reply and walks across the floor to the kitchen. Mags is just off the kitchen in the den, nestled in a comfortable chair with a quilt she's been working on spread across her lap as she keeps going.

She looks over her shoulder at Finnick. "Hello, my dear," she says in her garbled voice. "A sight for sore eyes, you are."

With a weary smile, Finnick crosses the room and leans over to give her an affectionate kiss. "You too, Mags," he tells her, "anyone who wears the skin and eye-colour they were born with is beautiful, these days."

Mags sadly tilts her head to the side, knowing implicitly of what his trip to the Capitol consisted.

Finnick sighs, straightening his back and looking around. "Where's Annie?"

Returning to her quilting project, Mags replies, "She's gone to the beach."

"With who?"

"By her lonesome."

His smile fades. "What? You let her go alone?"

"Of course."

"To the ocean? Mags – how could you?" Finnick's stomach clenches as he thinks of all the things that could have happened.

"Quite easily, boy," the old woman says calmly. "It's a beautiful day and she grew restless cooped up inside. She was dying to go."

"Mags," he sputters, frustrated by the woman's nonchalance, "it's – the water – she's – her mother just waded in one day. Never came out."

"Yes," Mags agrees, her voice somber. "But our Annie's not like that."

"Oh, God," he says to himself, dragging his fingers through his hair. He begins to back away toward the door. "When she's all alone… her thoughts run away from her… she thinks of the Arena and then she wades in to save herself—"

"She's not as lost as you think she is," Mags points out. "And if she were going to end it all, she certainly wouldn't do so without first wishing you goodbye."

That's all the motivation he needs to burst out of the house and break into a run. He sprints down the lane that leads into the Victor's Village and ignores strange glances from passers-by as he flashes through the district towards the sea. It's more than a couple of miles, and by the time he's halfway there, he's shed his shirt and uses it as a towel to blot the sweat pouring down his face. Even in twilight, the district is blistering hot.

The ocean stretches along the coast of District 4, so in theory, she could be anywhere. But Finnick knows on instinct almost exclusively where she'll be: behind the run-down Cresta family home, on the patch of sand where she's spent the happier days of her life.

He's right.

He spots her as he approaches, standing ankle-deep in the ocean and letting the tide rush around her feet and then recede. He knows that game. He's played it a million times himself.

With a deep sigh of relief, he slows to a walk and eventually has to stop altogether, placing his hands on his knees as he bends over to catch his breath. There's a splitting pain in his side that sears with every breath, but he doesn't care. His lungs are going to burst and his legs are on fire, but he feels alive.

He bundles the shirt in his hand and wipes the last drops of sweat off his brow before slinging it over his shoulder. He straightens, facing the tranquil sunset, and marvels at the simple splendour that is the girl he loves. With tangled, elbow-length chestnut hair, a flowing sundress that reaches her knees and her head tilted back and eyes closed to meet the setting sun, Annie takes his breath away. Her Games have left him so preoccupied with her health and sanity that he's forgotten just how beautiful she is. The only one he has eyes for.

Ignoring the prominent cramp in his left side, Finnick takes long strides down the beach toward her. His thoughts race past all they've done for one another. All the hardships they've endured. All they've been made to suffer at the hand of another. They deserve this moment. Just one moment, uninterrupted in the caresses of the breeze, belonging only to them.

But she may not want any moments with him at all.

The thought stops him dead in his tracks. She might distrust him again on instinct. Everything they'd worked toward, vanished within a fortnight. She may feel abandoned. Betrayed. Used. Cheated. There could be any number of uncertain hiccups in their reunion.

Annie opens her lids to the sun, breathes in deeply and looks over her shoulder. Their eyes lock, and the corner of her lip turns upward into a smile.

"Finnick," she says. Though the sun is shining on her, Finnick is sure the twinkle in her eyes has nothing to do with the light.

A grin spreads across his face – so large, it hurts his cheeks. He hasn't smiled on impulse in ages.

"Hi, Annie," he replies. She turns to face him, taking her thick hair all in one hand, twisting it around and throwing it over her shoulder. Every movement entrances him and he wishes he never had to take his eyes off her again. He adds confidently, "I missed you."

The urge to sweep her into his arms has never been greater, but there's a gap between them for safety. In case his face triggers a horrible memory.

Annie nods, biting her lip. And then it's she who moves forward, closing the distance between them and throwing her arms around his neck. She clings to him, whispering in his ear that she's missed him, too.

He clasps his hands around her back and resolves not to let go. Shutting his eyes, he breathes her in – salt, sea and sunshine.

He's home.

* * *

><p>Annie, even more so than Finnick, was not made to live in a spacious luxury home in the Victor's Village. Though she never utters a complaint, it's the little things Finnick observes that prove her unease and discomfort. The only rooms she uses in her home are the kitchen, the bathroom and the bedroom. The more adjusted she becomes, the less time she wants to spend there. A quiet sadness builds in her eyes as she sits in the sand behind what used to be her home. And though both Finnick and Mags have suggested unpacking some boxes and belongings from her home on the beach, Annie's reluctant to do so and delays. She treats her home in the Victor's Village as a motel, a temporary stay.<p>

Finnick does what he can to help her settle. Every morning, he runs around the house and opens all the windows to let in the sunlight. He picks up knickknacks from fans and from booths in the market and decorates the rooms of the house to personalize it. He plants flowers around the front stoop and together, they create a small vegetable garden around the back. But it's not the same. Still, the house seems barren and cold. Made for a killer to isolate himself from the world, not for sweet, gentle Annie.

"You spend more time here than at your own house," Annie remarks one day as they prepare a meal of trout and rice. "Why?"

Finnick pops a carrot into his mouth and replies, "What do you mean, why?"

"Wouldn't you rather be in your own home?"

He opens the oven and squats down, pulling out the rack. Concentrating on using tongs to flip the fish, he answers easily, "You_ are_ my home."

He feels her eyes on him, but he does not look up.

* * *

><p>One day, after spending the afternoon fishing on the shore and the evening playing card games, she mentions unceremoniously that she dreads the next time he's called on by the Capitol. Finnick, who's tried not to think about it, allows his smile to fade only for a moment before he dons a brave face.<p>

"Come here," he says, taking Annie's hand and pulling her up. He leads her towards the stairs. "I want to show you something."

"What is it?"

With their fingers lightly entwined, he takes her to her bedroom, dimly lit by shaded lamps.

Her bed has been transformed. It's still the same bed, of course, but there's now a canopy that drapes over the four posters, like a tent to shield her from the outside.

Amusement plays on Annie's face.

"Mags made it," Finnick tells her. "She quilted it for you. I gave her some ideas and then when you were with Dr. Ablesworth this morning, I set it up."

Annie stares at him expectantly, awaiting further elaboration.

"Come here," he says again. It's better to show her than to explain.

They climb onto the bed under the awning and he instructs her to lie down. He lies beside her, intently studying the reaction on her face as she views the inside of the canopy for the first time.

It is, in essence, all the things that remind Annie of home.

He gives her a moment to take it all in, her lips parting as she gazes upwards.

"That's a fish," he says, propping himself up on one elbow and pointing to the left corner. "Next to it is the sand and the surf. A fishing boat. A hook. Crabs. An anchor. The golden sun." He could go on, but she can see it for herself. Instead, he waits for a reaction. She's mesmerized, staring in awe at the tiny details of the quilted canopy. After a few more moments, a pained expression crosses her face.

"I thought it would be good," Finnick says slowly, treading lightly around her expression, "for the nightmares. The images can remind you where you are. That you're safe and loved, even when I'm not here to talk you through it."

Finally, her fixation on the quilt comes to an end as her eyes dart to Finnick's face. "You're leaving again?" she asks.

"Not tonight," he assures her, reaching over to brush her hair from her face. "I never know when I'll be called away."

"To the Capitol," she adds.

He nods gravely.

"Do you like it there?"

"No," he replies, absently twirling one of her curls around his index finger. "You know I hate it."

"You must like something about it. You're always smiling on television," she remarks.

He rolls his eyes with an amused half-smile. "Not real."

"You're not on television?"

"No, that part is real," he explains in good nature. "And I do smile. But the sentiment behind it – it's never real."

"Then what is real?"

He gulps, falling into Annie's sea green eyes. "Every smile I've ever given to you."

She considers this, chin touching her shoulder. Without shame or nervousness, she asks, "Does everyone know you love me, Finnick?"

The question takes him aback, and he opens his mouth to no available response. Annie patiently awaits his answer, her eyes trailing from his hair, to his lips, to his chest.

"Some do," is his calculated reply. Softly, he adds, "But no one knows how much."

"I loved you, too," she says. The past tense of the word stings, but he doesn't let it show. "Is that real?"

"That's real," he murmurs. "At least, you told me so. The night before the Arena."

Reminiscing, she nods. "I remember." She returns her gaze to the canopy, her chest rising with a deep breath. "I don't always remember all of what we said to each other. Sometimes, when I'm convinced I hate you, I don't remember any of it."

He shuts his eyes in pain, breathing, "That's okay."

"But one thing that never leaves me is the way it felt that night, when you kissed me."

His eyes open slowly.

Annie bites her lip as she stares at the canvas above, deep in thought. "Sometimes I can swear it just happened. Even in my worst moments, I never forget how it felt."

He's almost afraid to ask, but he plucks up his courage. It's now or never. "How did it feel?"

As if suddenly remembering he's beside her, she turns her head to meet his eyes again. "Like I was safe," she admits. "Like I was free. Like I was loved."

He gravitates toward her on instinct, lowering his head to meet her. As their lips brush, Annie rests her hand on his chest, just over the heart that beats for her and her alone. One taste isn't enough, and Finnick dips in for a lengthier kiss, one that serves to reacquaint them.

Once they break apart, noses touching, breathing heavily, Annie asks, "Finnick?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you," she says, "for the quilt."

He gives a small smile, nodding in acknowledgement and pressing his lips to her forehead. They lay in an embrace for some time after, she staring at the intricate details of the canopy, he breathing her in and trying to match her heartbeat with his own.

"You'll stay with me tonight," she says, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "Won't you?"

He shuts his eyes in contentment, running a hand along her back. "Yes," he agrees, "and every night after, if you'll have me."

She tightens her grip on him, nestling comfortably into his arms, and he holds her to his body like he never intends to let go.

That night, holding her close, he catches her nightmare before it consumes her.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry for the late update today - it was so beautiful outside that I had to take advantage of the weather! Thanks to all you readers out there, especially those who are kind enough to leave me comments. I really appreciate it and hope I'm doing Finnick and Annie justice :) <strong>


	12. if we could float away

**Chapter 12:** _71st Annual Hunger Games_

Finnick settles quite happily into mornings alone with Annie. They are quiet and tender with one another, Annie grasping for her sanity and Finnick dangling it as close to her as he can get it. With the surety of waking up next to one another, both develop the courage to brave each day.

He wakes before her most mornings, his internal clock sounding the moment the sun peeks over the horizon. He climbs out of bed, careful not to disturb her, and cleans himself up. Or waters the flowers on the stoop. Or checks on the vegetable garden in the back. Or makes breakfast. Anything to keep his mind occupied.

But on his last morning – the morning of the Reaping – he sits on one of the balcony chairs with the sole intention of watching the sun rise.

Annie joins him shortly thereafter, dark strands of hair flying loose from her unkempt bun. She yawns, placing a hand on his shoulder and offering him a bite of her toasted bread. He shakes his head – the pangs in his gut are not those of hunger, but dread. Another Hunger Games. Another two tributes. Another visit to the grey-faced Capitol with its abhorrent citizens.

"You should eat," she tells him. "We have eggs. Or leftover black drum."

"I'm not hungry."

"I can get you some juice," she offers.

Again, he shakes his head, staring bleakly into the sunrise.

Annie slides her hand along his shoulder blade, running her fingers through his thick hair. Her voice is faint as she says, "I wish I could go with you."

At this, he manages to break himself from his hardened stare to look up at her. "No," he says firmly. "That would be even worse."

"Even worse than being apart from you?"

"Much worse."

Annie frowns, chewing slowly on the last bite of bread. Knowing he's wounded her, he reaches around her waist and pulls her gently onto his lap.

"I don't look forward to being away from you," he says, wrapping his arms around her, "but knowing you're safe in District 4 is all that will get me through the lonely nights."

She sighs, draping an arm around his neck. She leans her head against his, replying, "I only feel safe when I'm with you."

Finnick knows it's true. If he hadn't been with her during her Victory Tour, there's a good chance she wouldn't have made it back. The big, cheering crowds and constant mental revisits to the Arena had her in a perpetual state of unrest and blind fear.

He presses his lips to her neck, murmuring against her skin, "I wish it didn't have to be like this."

Raking her fingers absently through his hair, she asks softly, "What do you dream of, when you dream of freedom?"

Allowing his dreams to take hold of him, he shuts his eyes and sees Annie's smile. The crinkles outside her eyes. Her lively laughter. "You," he replies. "With or without the freedom, it's you."

The sky trades its byzantine tint for azure as the sun rises higher. Annie runs a hand down his cheek, silently asking him to look her in the eyes so she can tell whether or not he speaks the truth. Their sea green eyes find each other's and lock instantly, and she holds the connection for a few comfortable seconds before leaning in to kiss him. It's nearly painful to be this intimate with her only hours before they must be separated for weeks.

"I dream of poverty," she tells him afterward. "A little house overlooking the sea where you wake to the gulls' cries and sleep to the crashing waves. The next meal is whatever you can catch. The house has big, open windows to welcome the sunlight and even though the paint is chipping and the wooden chairs are wobbly, the tiny house feels full and alive."

Breathing in, Finnick says dreamily, "That sounds nice."

"This house has everything," she remarks, "but it feels empty and cold."

"I know," he agrees, apologetic. "You weren't supposed to be in a place like this."

"Neither were you." Annie pulls back, keeping her arms loosely linked around his neck. "Finn?"

He raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement as her next words strike a chord within him.

"This house – this life – is this our forever?"

* * *

><p>"Now, I've heard stories about your mentor, Mr. Finnick Odair," Caesar Flickerman tells Aspen, the female tribute from District 4. It's the evening before the Games begin – Interview Night – and Finnick sits with the other mentors assessing the strengths and weaknesses of every tribute who takes the stage. The moment Caesar mentions his name, the cameras pan to his face and he feels the eyes of the audience on him. On cue, he delivers a dazzling smile and a wink to top it off. "Rumour is he's quite the ladies' man."<p>

"Yes," Aspen agrees, adding a faux-giggle. "He seems to know every woman in the Capitol! He can make any girl feel very special."

Though Aspen was instructed to play the friendly, resourceful angle – good for attracting allies – Finnick knows there's a devil inside of her. She's a true Career, a District 4 volunteer who trained for the Games from a young age.

"And has he made _you_ feel very special?" Caesar asks. "After all, we know that mentors develop a unique bond with their tributes, and I wouldn't put it past Mr. Odair to get to know his tributes – particularly the females – _very_ well."

Aspen laughs sweetly, replying, "In other circumstances, I'd be done for after just one smile. But I have other priorities for the time being. If he gets me out of the Arena, then we'll talk."

"Oh, ho!" Caesar exclaims, slapping his knee in amusement. He looks into the crowd, pointing to the cluster of mentors. "Hear that, Odair? You've got some work to do if you want the attentions of this feisty lady."

The crowd bursts into laughter as the jumbo-tron zooms to Finnick's reaction. As always, his boyish grin is at the ready – smile, charm, and win them over. These are the expectations he's always met.

"My hopes are high for my boy tribute this year," says Johanna Mason, District 7's female mentor who catches up with him as the mentors mull out of the stadium. "So if you want to bang your tribute, I'd do it now. It'll be your last chance."

He frowns, asking Beetee, an old victor from District 3, to excuse him. "Johanna – what?"

"I said, if you're going to sleep with her—"

"Shh," he interrupts, chuckling as a few mentors look over with interest.

"I'm just giving you a heads-up," she shrugs. "Your tribute killed mine last year, so this year, you owe me one."

Finnick raises an amused eyebrow. "Are you serious? Your second tribute then turned around and decapitated mine. We're even." Making light of something that so heavily traumatized Annie is not a line he's breached before, and having done so makes his stomach churn. He's wary of Johanna. She's not like the other mentors who have come to accept their fates, and for that reason, she is both exciting and dangerous.

"And who took home the victory last year?" Johanna asks, making a show of racking her brains. "Oh, yes: little Miss Annie who wouldn't hurt a fly. You _owe _me."

He rolls his eyes though a smile crosses his face. She's a funny one, Johanna.

"I'd get to it," she suggests, checking the time. "Only a few hours of lovemaking left before she dies in the Arena."

"You know, you have a sick sense of humour," he remarks.

"And you have a disgusting taste in women," she retorts. "I saw you leave the tribute parade last week with Azalia Bancheri. She must be aged half a century, if not older."

An onset shiver slides down his spine at the thought of Azalia. But she'd been a smart choice. From her, he'd learned Snow's methods of poisoning his political targets: drinking from the same cup to ward off suspicions. His arsenal was stacked with cyanide antidotes, of course, but even then, his murders did not leave him without scars – when one looked close enough, it was possible to see the boils on his lips, carefully concealed by the heavy scent of roses on his lapel.

"I wouldn't pin that to my personal taste," is all he says in response.

"Of course not," chides Johanna, "you only do as you're told. You're wrapped around Snow's twisted little finger."

She makes no effort to lower her voice, and he flashes her a glare – she may have nothing to lose, but he certainly does.

"In that case, better not fool with your district's broad tonight," Johanna finishes. "Nothing gained for our dear President there."

"Could you watch what you're saying?" Finnick snaps, eyes darting around the premises. "I know you have no one, but some of us do – and some of us value their lives more than the satisfaction of running our mouths."

This seems to shut her up. Taken aback, Johanna falls a few steps behind Finnick as they head through the Training Center. He looks over his shoulder as he strides ahead, if only to flash her an irritated glance.

She steps off the elevator on his floor to catch a quiet moment with him.

"Is it worth it?" she asks, her tone softer. "Is keeping them alive worth this slavery? This… this sick, demented ownership of mind and body?"

He shakes his head in annoyance, ignoring her as he walks down the carpeted hall to his suite. Insistent on saying her piece, Johanna charges after him, grabbing a hold of his wrist and spinning him around so that they stand face-to-face.

"Is it worth it when the ones you love look upon you with disdain, knowing you've sacrificed everything you are just for another day with them? Knowing that one wrong move on your part controls their destiny? Wouldn't it be more humane to release them from this suffering, wretched life, knowing that you'd spend every day afterwards fighting? Wouldn't they _want_ it that way, Finnick?"

Leander. Dixie. _Annie_. He feels tied to their fates, knowing he was and is the reason for their suffering.

And he never asked if they would have wanted it another way.

* * *

><p>From Marquiana Sundry, the young, innocent daughter of the Minister of Luxury Goods, Finnick learns that Snow decorates his Mansion in rich tapestries of red and black – easier to conceal the blood of his potential threats. Finnick likes the younger women best – they're easier to manipulate when it comes to gathering information about the man he hates more than anything in the world: Marquiana was shy at first, and it took coaxing and some of his greatest charm, but eventually he stripped her both of clothes and secrets.<p>

It gets easier every time, and it sickens him.

"What about you, Finnick Odair?" asks the impressionable girl with long, threaded hair dyed violet. "Do you have any secrets?"

He smiles as he stands and buttons his pants. "Oh, one or two," he replies in cavalier fashion, "but they're the secrets of a fisherman's son, not a Capitol elite. They wouldn't interest you."

"Try me," she giggles.

Arching an eyebrow, he crawls across the bed to whisper in her ear. "If I told you, sweetheart," he says, capturing her lips in a wet kiss, "you'd wake up screaming every night for the rest of your life."

He leaves it at that.

* * *

><p>"What do you say?" Johanna asks, leaning across the table to block his view in the Recreational Room. "Let's see… last time I checked, I had two tributes alive and you had…" She counts on her fingers. "Oh, that's right. Just the one."<p>

Grimacing, Finnick leans back on his chair. By his observation, he's the only mentor Johanna picks on face-to-face. The others she's kind enough to mock behind their backs.

"Last time _I_ checked," he counters, "my tribute had a group of allies in the Career pack and an overflow of sponsors, while both of yours are alone, starving and in hiding."

Johanna scowls, her dark eyebrows knotted in a line across her forehead. "We'll see, Odair. Everyone likes a good underdog story. You and I can both attest to that."

He gives her a small smile. She annoys him to no end and her name spells trouble, but underneath it all, Johanna both amuses and mystifies him.

If the truth be told – and Finnick is disgusted with himself for wishing it – he hopes that District 4 won't have a victor this year. It's true that the victor's district is showered in gifts and supplies from the Capitol throughout the year, but if his tributes perish, he can return earlier to Annie and won't have to worry her with another miserable Victory Tour later on in the year.

But that's a secret best kept from Johanna.

"Sponsorship book, huh?" Johanna asks, gesturing to the catalogue in front of him. She sits herself on the table and picks it up, flipping through all the potential gifts a mentor can send to their tribute along with their prices. "Haven't looked through mine yet. I'm saving up pledges for a gun. Is there a gun in here?"

Finnick snorts with laughter, lowering his head so that other mentors won't catch him cavorting with the loose-tongued rebel. "I don't think so," he says. "Too easy. Too anticlimactic."

"Damn," she mutters under her breath as she flips through the pages. Finally, she closes the book and sighs, crossing her legs as she examines the room full of mentors who sit at their respective tables watching their screens and plotting. She nudges Finnick, nodding her chin in the direction of the table reserved for District 1. "What are Threadbare and Sandpaper thinking?"

Finnick looks over to see the two mentors from District 1 – a brother-sister duo – hunched over their table, deep in discussion. Keeping a straight face, he points out, "I think their names are Cashmere and Gloss."

Ignoring his correction, Johanna continues, "You know they'll get their tributes to dispose of yours as soon as he's no longer convenient."

He folds his arms across his chest. "Thanks for your concern, Johanna, but I'd leave the worrying about my tribute to me."

"I intend to," she replies, placing her palms flat behind her on the table. "It's why I came over here, actually – just wanted to check on you. If I recall correctly, last year you almost had a hernia getting that girl out of the Arena. From one mentor to another, I wanted to make sure you weren't going into cardiac arrest this time around."

He gives her a dry stare.

"Guess not," she concludes. "Not that I blame you – your boy has a strange upper lip and after his interview, I'd say he's nothing to write home about. Not like darling Annie." Finnick tenses as Johanna continues, "I bet you were all over that after her Games ended. Tell me, did she pay you, or vice versa?"

His eyes darken, all amusement vanishing. She's crossed a line, and if he weren't in a room full of brutal Hunger Games victors, he'd lunge at her.

"Go back to your booth," he says.

She smiles. "I was only joking."

"You don't know when to stop, do you? Those lonely lips of yours run away with you into unfamiliar territory," he sneers.

Her smile fades, replaced by a stony frown. "At least my loneliness and I sleep soundly at night."

Intent to be rid of her, Finnick shakes his head irritably and picks up the sponsorship catalogue, leafing through it without purpose.

Johanna stands and makes a move to leave – but then she changes her mind and stays. "They say she's mad," she remarks. The softness of her voice reminds him of Annie on the days she needs verification on what is real and what is not. "Is that true?"

Finnick closes the catalogue, grinding his teeth to collect his answer. "We're all mad."

Johanna's eyes sweep around the room over the other mentors. Catching Finnick's eyes again, she nods. "Maybe so."

As she takes one last look around the room and heads back to her station, Finnick's mind calls to Annie – what she's doing, where she is, who wakes her at night when she's screaming for the lost souls in the Arena.

He clears his throat, calling, "Johanna. What you said the other night…"

The mentor turns, awaiting his next words.

"I've thought about it, and it_ is_ worth it."

She raises her eyebrows.

"Anything would be worth just one more smile. One more kiss. There's nothing I wouldn't do just to lay eyes on her one more time, or spend one more night sleeping next to her."

Johanna licks her lips, surprised by his conclusion.

"You may not agree," Finnick continues. "You may think I've sold myself to this place, these Games – but you'd be wrong. They can't own me when I gave myself away a long time ago to someone else."

He pauses, waiting for Johanna to take a few steps towards him.

"Now, with that said," he finishes, "can we make a deal?"

Johanna scoffs. "I already told you, Odair. This year it's my turn to have a victor."

"Not about the Games," he brushes her off. "No, a deal about a lumber trade."

* * *

><p>Coming home has never been greater than this: having a girl waiting for him in the meadow who walks straight into his arms the moment he steps off the hoverplane. Finnick drops his bags and embraces her, squeezing his eyes shut as the layers of ice around his frozen heart begin to chip and melt. He never wants to forget how it feels to be dearly missed. As long as he lives, he'll always remember how it felt to see her face coming off the aircraft, those sea green eyes lingering on his as though they've finally found what they're looking for.<p>

When he wakes later in the night, nightmares of the Arena leaving him shivering and raw, it's Annie who cradles his head and rakes her fingers through his hair, whispering to him that it's over now, he's home.

As he lies next to the one he loves, the two of them entwined by every limb, for they can't get close enough, he thinks distantly of Johanna. He wonders who meets her off the plane, who holds her at night, who whispers softly into her ear.

He wonders why she lives, when all she has is freedom.

* * *

><p>After a morning of swimming in the sea which nearly traumatized her – other than to shower, Annie hasn't set foot in water since the Arena for fear of drowned, floating corpses – they lay together on her bed in the afternoon, exhausted as the sun's rays pour into her bedroom and the gentle breeze drifts in through the open windows. Annie lies on her back, knowing it's best to stare up at the canopy decorated with remnants of the life she loved. Finnick dozes on his stomach, his arm thrown protectively across Annie's torso and his chin turned in her direction, resting in the crook of her neck. The sun bathes them in warmth as it casts a deliciously sleepy glow.<p>

"Finn?" Annie asks, her voice no more than a whisper.

"Mm hmm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Mm." He keeps his heavy eyes closed, hoping to retain his comfortable position.

"Do you think the innocent have somewhere to go after they die?"

At this, his droopy eyelids lift. "What do you mean?"

"Do you think they… _go on_, somehow?"

"How could they go on if they're dead?"

She rests her arm over his on her stomach, shifting herself slightly so she can meet his eyes. "I don't know. But sometimes I like to think they do. That somewhere – not here, but somewhere that's like a dream – they keep on living. And maybe they don't do the same things they did while they were on Earth, but they remember us. And when we die, the ones we used to know find us in the dream and it's like we were never apart at all."

Finnick contemplates this. He's seen more dead bodies than he cares to count, and all of them have one thing in common: they're dead. Stiff. Lifeless. And sometimes, Finnick consoles himself with this. They are reprieved from their suffering. Set free. No longer strapped to their bodies or souls. He can't imagine that any of them still exist somewhere, even in a dreamlike state. They're dead – that's all.

"Maybe," is his indifferent response, if only to appease her. "Why is this on your mind?"

Annie sighs, staring distantly at the canvas above. "I'm thinking about my mother," she says. "When she came to see me before the train to the Capitol, we said our goodbyes. We knew it was the last time we'd see each other – but both of us thought it was because I wouldn't be coming home. We never considered that she… well, we just thought it would be me. And the things we said to one another were in the spirit of _me_ dying, not her. Now that I look back on it, I wish we could have one more conversation. The only way that's possible is if there's some sort of life after this one."

When she finishes, he gives her a gentle squeeze but has nothing to say. Life after death – it's too easy, too good to be true. A world with Snow and the Hunger Games simply wouldn't allow it.

"Do you ever wish you could see your father again, Finn? Or your mother?" she asks him.

Somewhere in the Capitol, his mother still lives – but it's better if Annie thinks her dead. "I suppose," he says thoughtfully. "But if there's such thing as a dream after death where all the innocent go, I doubt I'll see anyone I love again."

Unhappy with his answer, Annie rolls onto her side to face him. "Why is that?"

His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he stares into her eyes with a faint frown. "Annie," he says softly, as if she should already know, "I'm not one of the innocent."

She reaches out to smooth back his hair, replying, "Of course you are."

"I've killed," he says, and she flinches. "Sold my body. Trained children to die. When it comes to eternity, Snow and I will be damned to the same hell."

"That's not true!" Annie says in alarm. "Finnick, you can't truly believe that."

"What other afterlife is there for me?"

With a pained expression, Annie holds his gaze for a few strained moments. "Maybe it doesn't matter what we've done in this life," she reasons. "Maybe it doesn't even matter who we are. All that matters is that our hearts are good. And, Finn – your heart is _good_. After all we've seen together, I know it."

He gives her a weak smile, though he casts down his gaze.

She sidles closer to him, her sea green eyes wide and probing. "We'll meet there, someday," she tells him firmly. "Either that or we'll walk there hand-in-hand."

He raises his head. Whether or not it's true, it's an idea that keeps Annie strong. And he can't deny that it all sounds beautiful.

Before he catches her lips, he says, "Well, I hope so."

* * *

><p>While Annie attends her therapy session one breezy morning, Finnick makes a trip to the fish market. There, he strides straight to the booth of the cranky Roscoe Roe.<p>

"How are things, old man?" Finnick asks.

"This miserable weather," Roscoe grunts, though the warm breeze and clear sky isn't anything less than perfect. "Stinking fish. Rotten pay. Dirty peacekeepers stalking around more'n usual. Damn crooks."

"Things are great with me, too," the victor jokes dryly.

"You lookin' for a job? Could always use a salesman – there was always something about you, kid."

"I'm touched," Finnick says with a grin. "But I have another job in mind. One that's going to take quite a bit of my time. With that said, I got a question for you, smiley."

The fishmonger rolls his eyes and wipes the sweat from his brow with a sodden handkerchief tucked inside the pocket of his apron.

"How much do you know about architecture?" Finnick asks.

"'Bout as much as I know about women," Roscoe replies in his usual gruff tone.

"That'll do," Finnick chuckles.

"Eh?"

Finnick leans across the booth, staring intently into the sweaty fishmonger's eyes. "I'm working on a major construction project. It may take months. And I need you to help me."

Brushing him off as if it's a joke, Roscoe says, "These old bones can't lift more'n a handful of dirt."

Finnick presses on, "You'll never go hungry. You'll never be without as long as you live. I give you my word."

The balding man eyes him suspiciously. "I ain't worth nothing. Born a fishmonger, die a fishmonger."

"My word," Finnick repeats, holding out his hand to shake.

"Leander had that spirit of yours," Roscoe remarks, "once upon a time."

The victor gulps, imploring Roscoe with his gaze.

"And if you're anything like your father, your word's as good as gold," he concludes, shaking Finnick's hand with his bulging sausage fingers.

Finnick grins, showing his former employer where to meet him the following morning to begin.

"And Roscoe," he calls as he heads out of the fish market, "there are worse things to be all your life than a fishmonger."

* * *

><p>The peacekeepers look on with interest, but do not say anything as Finnick signs a deed in the Mayor's Building declaring him owner of a small plot of land near the outskirts of the district. He knows they will report this directly to Snow, but he could hardly care less. He has nothing to be afraid of.<p>

Johanna has kept her end of the bargain, and one gorgeous morning, Finnick receives a large shipment of prime District 7 lumber directly to his new plot of land. The peacekeepers raise all kinds of fuss, but Finnick has the transaction papers that prove the legality of the trade. Roscoe gets a gruff sense of enjoyment from this and is never more pleased than when he gets to tell them off.

With his lumber, his land and very little labour, Finnick is set.

That's the day he begins to build Annie a house on the sea.

* * *

><p><strong>Happy Sunday! I have to apologize if this chapter seems a little unpolished – I've only looked through it once as a whole and intend to do so again later. Thanks as always to anyone who's taken the time to read! Also: the movie. Yay or nay? Other than a few minor details that weren't necessary for them to modify, I was quite pleased. But I also had my eyes shut for about 25% of the film as shaky cameras make me sick. Guess the only solution is to see it again! :)<strong>


	13. lift off before trouble just erodes us

**Chapter 13:** _72__nd__ Annual Hunger Games_

With something meaningful to do, Finnick finds that time passes faster than ever before. Building a house is not something that he – or Roscoe, for that matter – has any experience with, so he spends weeks shadowing construction workers in the district and developing a blueprint for the house. It's going to be small, just like Annie imagined, with big, wide windows to let in the sunlight and a porch overlooking the sea.

It isn't long before Finnick is an expert with tools, namely hammers, saws, and axes. Roscoe is surprisingly adept with geometrics and spends most of his time with a pencil behind his ear as he wanders around measuring angles, making marks all over the blueprints, and complaining about the sunny weather. While Finnick does all of the heavy lifting and physical labour, Roscoe finds himself useful with the simple things, such as holding nails into place.

At first, Annie visited only sometimes, and only to bring them snacks and refreshments. While she wanted to be of help, Finnick could see that sharp noises like the bludgeoning hammer or the slicing of the axe left her blocking her ears and squeezing her eyes shut, the sounds bringing her straight back to the Arena. But as more members of the Victor's Village become involved with the project, the more Annie joins them and, on the good days, assists with the more delicate tasks.

By the time the skeleton of the house is in place, Finnick has a team of six or seven, including Qais, Jarvis, and Elsie and her husband. Purposeful work seems to bring all the victors to a happier place – but it also draws the attention of the peacekeepers. Normally, the Capitol soldiers leave the victors alone, but they've been suspicious of Finnick's motives from the beginning and seem determined to ensure the house is never complete.

"It's too tall," they declare one afternoon. "District 4 bylaw number 257 states that no house situated directly on the ocean shall be more than 4.75meters in height."

Instead of giving up, Finnick and his team spend days re-jigging and fit the house to the bylaw.

Another bylaw – number 258, which Finnick is certain was created with Snow's permission just to interfere – is presented to them a month later, when it appears that the house was built too close to the sea. Finnick temporarily halts construction and takes this one to the Mayor's Building, having it decreed that, should the house erode over time from the tide, he alone will be responsible for whatever damages there may be.

When Finnick begins to work on the roof of the house and spends every day staring at the ocean 4.75 meters aboveground, he always pauses to wave to the fishermen who sail by at the end of each day with their catches. It's then that he realizes that Fletcher is among those fishermen. Though he doesn't always find his bronze-haired brother amongst the cluster of boats, he knows Fletcher is there. And on days their eyes find one another's across the expanse of water, he can still feel Fletcher's anger burning as bright as it did on the day they last spoke. But behind that anger – and only sometimes – Finnick senses his brother's curiosity.

It's that small source of hope that keeps him plodding on.

* * *

><p>With her slow, shaky movements and muddled speech, she's not fit to mentor anymore, but altruistic old Mags insists on accompanying Finnick to the Capitol for the 72nd Annual Hunger Games. On one hand, he's relieved that he'll have someone to talk to – someone who feels like home – but on the other, he worries about Mags' health and even more about leaving Annie alone in the Victor's Village. Before he left, she promised to visit Roscoe Roe every afternoon, who in turn promised to have a fresh catch of the day for Finnick's girl. Still, he worries about the nights. He worries that there won't be anyone there to turn off the television for her when they're broadcasting news of Finnick Odair's many Capitol flings for all of Panem to hear. He worries that she'll wake up alone.<p>

On the evening of the tribute parade, all mentors watch the screens in the Training Center, gathered and reunited for the first time. Finnick spots Johanna's cropped brown hair across the room and feels an inexplicable sense of warmth, as if she's ever been any comfort to him at all. A strange itch propels him toward her.

He sneaks up behind her small stature and says into her ear, his voice a low purr, "Gorgeous, what would you say if I told you that you could have the desirable Finnick Odair all to yourself for one hot, passionate evening?"

With a bored expression, Johanna sizes him up over her shoulder. "I'd say find me someone with a smile less pretty, a chest less shiny, and an ego less puffed."

Finnick grins, stepping beside her. "The more the better, I say."

"Less is more, _I_ say," she retorts. "What's it to you, Odair? Capitol broads not getting you up lately?"

He rolls his eyes at her uncanny ability to ruin a friendly moment. "Just wanted to say hello, actually."

"Well, hi," she replies, turning her attention back to the screen to catch her tributes emerge in the parade. Finnick watches with interest as she heaves a sigh, her eyes fluttering in annoyance. "Every god damn year," she tells him, pointing at the screen, "they give District 7 the same useless stylist who dresses the tributes as lumberjacks or trees. Every year!"

"They do look ridiculous," Finnick agrees, though his own tributes are dressed in equally bizarre costumes as scantily-clad mer-people.

"Who do I have to sleep with to get a new stylist for my tributes?" she demands. "You have all the connections; you tell me."

Finnick purses his lips. "Relax. At least you're not from District 12. Those tributes are always dressed as miners – or even worse, coal itself."

But Johanna's not convinced. She continues to rant, "These tribute parades completely bias the Capitol audience. Who would you sponsor, a sparkling diamond from District 1 or a dirt-brown tree with leaves growing from its ears?"

Amused, Finnick raises an eyebrow. "Do you really want to open the floor to the inequalities of the Games?"

"Someone should," she spits back. "But since you're too busy bending over for our dear president, I'll take my thoughts elsewhere."

At this jab, memories of former interactions with Johanna trickle into his conscious mind and he remembers her sharp tongue and its potential to do more harm than good.

"Great catching up, Jo," he says dryly as she steps away.

Over her shoulder, she adds, "Don't train your tributes too hard, Odair – they'll only be leaving the Arena in a box."

From anyone else's lips, those words would send his temper flaring – but Finnick has come to accept, and even appreciate, Johanna Mason and her tactless insensitivity. So he only shakes his head with a short laugh, turning to rejoin Mags amongst the mentors.

He spins around, coming face-to-face with Cashmere, the long-legged, stunning blonde beauty from District 1. If anyone receives close to as much evening company as Finnick Odair, it's her – he's sure of it, even though her cocked head and fiery eyes scream of danger.

Finnick mutters a quick hello and makes his way across the room to Mags, nodding to a few victors he recognizes: Chaff, the handless victor from District 11; Haymitch, the sole, drunken victor from 12 who stares bleakly at his frightened coal miner tributes on the screen; Beetee, the quiet and resourceful victor from 3 who's beaten in age only by Mags; and Cecilia, the gentle mother from 8 whose tributes are usually Bloodbath victims as they were nurtured by their mentor rather than trained.

For a moment, he meets the eye of Calix, a fairly young victor from District 6 who is either the happiest or the unhappiest to be there. It's always difficult to tell with morphling users, Finnick muses – their abused, emaciated bodies and sunken cheekbones tell a different story from the faraway look in their eyes.

If there's anyone he envies tonight, it's them.

* * *

><p>Before the tributes are released into the Arena, Finnick dips outside for fresh air – as fresh as the hazy Capitol can get – and a walk around the Training Center to gather himself. No matter how many times he mentors and how much effort he invests into emotionally distancing himself from his tributes, he always catches himself overwhelmed with sadness as they say what he knows is their last goodbye.<p>

Johanna joins him for the stroll, not nearly as torn as him but still fuming about the injustice, as usual.

"For someone who boasts a life of solitude, you seem to enjoy my company," Finnick remarks.

"Get over yourself," she brushes him off. "If there was so much as a snail not glued to the television screen, you'd be walking alone."

Finnick snorts.

"I just want to hear how that house is coming along."

He gives her an odd stare, unsure if she is genuinely interested or is simply distracting him from thoughts of the Arena. Either way, he appreciates the thought and begins to describe to her the construction process, the challenges faced, and his overall concept for the design of the modest, open house. Within minutes, he feels himself come to life, and it's like he's back in District 4 staring proudly at the fruits of his labour.

"And your lady love?" Johanna asks. "What does she think?"

"Annie?" Finnick gives her a half-smile, a pang twisting in his heart at the thought of his girl. He nods. "She loves it. She's always talking about ideas to decorate and how she'll arrange the furniture so it's facing the great, wide ocean. I think once I get her in there – once she feels like she has a real home again – everything will be so much better. She'll be… she might start to feel like herself again."

Johanna scoffs, staring at the ground as she walks. "If that's what you're aiming for, you might as well invent a time machine. Nobody ever feels like themselves again."

Silence hangs heavy between them as Johanna waits for a reply and Finnick lets her statement sink in. He doesn't have time to reply before they're approached on the street – mostly empty due to the launch of the Games – by a little Capitol girl, pink hair curled and coiffed. She can't be more than ten as she holds out the glossed pages of a magazine and asks them to sign. Their faces – the faces of past victors – stare glowingly back at them from the page.

"Mom!" she calls, looking over her shoulder as Finnick takes the pen and signs his name. "Mommy, it's them! It's Finnick and the one from District 7!"

Suppressing another snort, Finnick gives a snide glance to Johanna, who rolls her eyes and elbows him in the gut. Still, she begrudgingly signs the magazine after Finnick.

"Thank you," the girl says politely. As her mother approaches with another child in tow, she adds, "Happy Hunger Games!"

"Oh, thank you," the girl's mother repeats, gushing, "We were just on our way home to watch the launch – it's the most exciting part, of course, and it's the first year my youngest is old enough to enjoy the Games. It's really just coincidence and luck that we were here to bump into you!"

"Our pleasure," Finnick says on behalf of himself and Johanna, whose expression is fraught with boredom.

"To get her ready for the Games, we've been watching all of the best clips from the past few years," the mother continues, squeezing the hand of her youngest daughter who hides her face in her mother's fur coat. "We've just seen the both of your victories! Brilliant, just marvellous! That's why they're so excited to run into you!"

The older girl is undoubtedly thrilled, bouncing up and down with her magazine. The younger appears to be shy at first glance, but when her mother finally coaxes her to show her face and greet the victors, Finnick sees big, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

With a slight frown, he bends to her level and asks, "Everything okay, sweetheart?"

The girl clings fearfully to her mother's cloak, shying away from Finnick as her face pales. As he reaches out to pat her shoulder, she whimpers and trembles.

Finnick straightens. Johanna watches with one eyebrow arched, thinking the family peculiar as all Capitol citizens are.

"I'm sorry," the woman apologizes, shaking her little one as if it will help. "She just doesn't quite understand yet."

She bids them good luck and ushers her daughters away, wishing them, as always, a happy Hunger Games.

While Johanna mutters bitterly beside him, Finnick turns to watch them cross the street, the youngest daughter openly wailing as she steals glances at him with her hand firmly grasping her mother's.

The woman was wrong, Finnick thinks. It's not that her little girl doesn't understand – if anything, it's that she understands all too well.

Since their first encounter, he'd always thought of himself and Johanna as complete opposites. After meeting the terrified girl not yet infected by the warped mindset of the Capitol, Finnick is reminded that he and Johanna are not so different, after all.

They are alike in their desire for triumph, their intrinsic need to fight for their lives despite all odds and obstacles, and the atrocities they committed to stand where they stand, as mentors and victors of the Hunger Games.

They are one in the same: cold. Violent. Soulless.

Murderers.

* * *

><p>The Capitol throws grand parties during the Hunger Games, as if corrupted, slaughtered children are something to be celebrated. While it's not a requirement for mentors to attend, most do, as it's the best way to mingle with Capitol folk and garner sponsors for one's tributes.<p>

The first time he attended a Capitol gala as a victor, Finnick knew no one. By the 72nd Annual Hunger Games, it frightens him how many faces he recognizes in the crowds and how many of those faces have whispered him drunken secrets in the dark.

"Okay, Prince Charming," Johanna says to him when she arrives, decorated by her stylist in a feminine yellow dress that makes her look most uncomfortable. "Point me in the direction of the Capitol gal with the most tortured past and leave it to me to work my magic for my tributes."

Amused, Finnick merely folds his arms across his chest and stares her up and down. "Johanna, sweetheart," he croons, "you look like an angry banana who'll explode when peeled."

She scowls. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Everyone knows you as ferocious," he points out. "What's with the dress?"

She punches him – hard – in the shoulder. Chuckling, he rubs the spot where he knows he'll develop a bruise as she replies, "I can be dainty. I can be _upbeat_. I haven't learned nothing from watching you prance around like a pony at a circus all these years."

Shaking his head at her antics, Finnick takes another look at the crowd. Bright, vivid colours, outlandish hairstyles and wildly designed clothing identify every Capitol citizen waiting to be talked up by a mentor. He can pick out a few mentors in the crowd as well – Cashmere and her soft, tousled blonde waves flirting with an older Capitol gentleman, Haymitch and Chaff drinking themselves to oblivion at the bar, Cecilia waiting patiently for a group of Capitol elites to give her the time of day. President Snow is also present in the crowd, and Finnick keeps a perpetual eye on his nemesis. He greets Gloss, Cashmere's brother, and Finnick can swear that with the subtle movements of Gloss's head, he's gesturing towards them across the room. Snow looks over for a brief second and catches his eye.

"Or should I be like Threadbare over there?" Johanna asks, interrupting his staring contest with the president. "Schmooze with the president, gush over how wonderful everything is here in the Capitol, and be set up by Snow himself with a most willing sponsor? It all seems too easy."

As his eyes sweep around the room at all the mentors making fools of themselves to keep their tributes alive, Finnick knows it's anything but easy. And once again, his eyes fall on Calix from District 6, who seems to have lost himself in the corner of the room – but it's a pleasant kind of loss accompanied by a dose of morphling, one that takes all the pain and suffering away.

* * *

><p>"Good evening, Mr. Odair," Snow says. As his cold fingers wrap around Finnick's hand to shake, Finnick gets a most unwelcome whiff of his perfume-scented lapel. He can't help but cough, using his free hand to cover his mouth. Snow ignores him, continuing, "Are you enjoying the festivities?"<p>

"I always do," Finnick replies dryly – he and Snow both know he's lying through his teeth.

"Excellent," Snow says, keeping up the charade. "And I trust all is well at home in District 4?"

Finnick resents the man even more for his cutting small-talk. "As well as well could be."

Snow nods. Beside him, Oslo Busby seems impatient to move on. Looking over his shoulder, Snow chuckles to himself and says, "Well, I can see I'm getting dirty looks from a number of women who are silently accusing me of monopolizing the attentions of a beloved victor. All these years, Mr. Odair, and you're still the crowd favourite. What is it about you that has so entranced such a wide variety of Capitol women?"

With his eyes locked on Snow's, Finnick answers, "They say it's my charm, sir. But I like to think it's because they're desperate for honesty, and they believe every word I say."

"Honesty," Snow muses, raising an eyebrow. "Very interesting. That reminds me, Mr. Odair: it's been brought to my attention that you've developed camaraderie with the girl from 7. Miss Mason, that is."

Finnick struggles not to show his surprise, but still has to frown. "All the mentors try to get along. We spend a lot of time together during the Games."

"As you should," Snow agrees. "However, it's fair to warn you of the possibility that the nature of your relationship with Miss Mason may soon bridge into dangerous territory."

"Dangerous territory, sir?"

"The girl's tongue is loose," Snow elaborates. "Loose with lies – treason, some might say. And that tongue may have to be stripped of her someday."

Finnick knows that Johanna's cut him deeply with that fiery tongue of hers, but still, the thought of her as an Avox causes him to wince with pain.

"There's a reason she has no one, Mr. Odair," Snow concludes. "No friends, no family. On the contrary, there's a reason you still have the fair Miss Annie. Not worth the risk, is it?"

Finnick glowers at Snow, gulping down his rage. It would be so easy, with only the stammering Oslo Busby standing guard, to snap the president's neck. He'd be taken down, of course, but not before catching a glimpse of Snow's lifeless, pathetic corpse.

But Snow's right: he has Annie, and it's not worth the risk.

"That being said, how is our darling Annie?" Snow asks, his eerie smile sending a shiver down Finnick's spine.

"She's fine," he says through gritted teeth, despising the sound of Annie's name from Snow's curled lips.

"Fabulous. Lately, I've been receiving good reports from that doctor of hers. Ablesworth, is it? Perhaps next year she can join us in the Capitol."

"She's not fit for it," is Finnick's quick reply.

"After all this time?" Snow asks, feigning shock. "Then perhaps she should be moved back to the Capitol as stipulated in our agreement. She'd receive better care here."

"She receives care at home," Finnick says firmly. "She needs to stay there, where she's stable."

"For now, Mr. Odair," Snow says mysteriously. "For now."

* * *

><p>Johanna glares at him from across the ballroom. At first, Finnick attributes it to Snow's warning and is overwhelmed with guilt from ignoring her. However, when he begins to notice the sour glares of other mentors, he realizes it may have to do with the fact that he has one Capitol woman on each arm and a few more in tow and they're constantly surrounded by a circle of elites. No one is sure anymore whether the District 4 tributes receive sponsors based on their own merits or the beauty and charm of their mentor.<p>

By Radman's instruction, he knows the woman he'll be bedding tonight – but he feels guilty about that, too, as he'll be more interested in her secrets than her purse strings for his tributes.

Seneca Crane, the Head Gamemaker, makes a brief appearance before being called back to the gamemakers' compound, and even he gives Finnick a wary, nervous glance – thinking back to the last time they spoke at Annie's Games, Finnick can't blame him.

And suddenly, standing in a crowded room surrounded by adoring admirers and wealthy elites, Finnick is entirely alone. From across the room, Snow flashes him a cruel, knowing smile, and he remembers that the president wants it this way.

He needs a breather.

Extricating himself from the women and slipping out unnoticed is no easy task, but Finnick soon slides out of the room and backs into the hallway where the coats are stacked.

When he turns around, he nearly jumps out of his skin – Calix is there, staring blankly amongst the coats, not at all perturbed by his presence.

"Sorry," Finnick breathes, "I didn't see you there."

Calix shrugs, looking more content than ever. And though his body is a thin and wiry wasteland and his heart must be working overtime, Finnick envies what remains of the man. He lives far away in the most secluded nooks of his own mind.

"Do you mind if I rest here for a couple of minutes?"

The morphling shakes his head.

Finnick mumbles his thanks and leans his head against the plush coats, breathing in and out for his own sanity. He watches as Calix produces a small white pill from his pocket, places it on the tip of his tongue and swallows it dry. The relief that floods his face is almost instant.

Finnick watches the man close his eyes in euphoria and then open them slowly. Itching with curiosity, he can't help but ask, "What does it feel like?"

Calix's eyes focus on him but do not seem to register the question.

"The morphling. What does it do?" he elaborates.

The man gives him a sad, lazy smile. "Takes it all away."

Finnick shakes his head in confusion. "How?"

The morphling licks his cracked lips, breathing in deeply. "It starts at your tongue," he says. "There's a soothing warmth – like sun felt through glass – and it slides down your throat and spreads from there. It coats every organ in a cloud and everything comes easier – standing, sleeping, breathing. You're weightless, floating away. And when it reaches your mind, it's the deepest relaxation, like everything you ever worried about was never really important at all."

Finnick gulps. "That sounds wonderful," he admits.

With eyes half-closed in relaxation, the man slides a hand in his pocket and produces another pill. He offers it to Finnick in the palm of his hand.

"Try it yourself," he says.

Finnick stares at the tiny pill in Calix's pale, veiny palm. He's never been more tempted to slip away from the world, to forget he ever had worries at all – even if it's just for one night…

"Mr. Odair – there you are!" exclaims a cheerful voice. Finnick jumps, spinning around in the hallway and using his frame to conceal Calix, who dumps the pill back into his pocket.

The man is no one Finnick recognizes, but he wears the sureness of a gamemaker on his face, as if he alone knows the victor of this year's Games.

"Plutarch Heavensbee," the man says, holding out his hand to shake. "Gamemaker."

_Ah_, thinks Finnick. _Knew it_.

He removes himself from the hallway of coats and shakes hands with Heavensbee, who's apparently delighted to cross his path. An Avox grabs Heavensbee's coat from the rack and holds out the vibrant garment while the man slides into it.

"Lovely to meet you, just lovely," Plutarch gushes. "The boy with the golden smile, they call you, and I can see why."

Finnick, who wasn't smiling at all, stares oddly at the plump man.

"How do you feel about the Games this year, my boy?" Heavensbee asks as they venture into the lobby. "Think the odds are in your – or should I say, your tributes' – favour?"

"Well," Finnick begins, the guilt over his forgotten tributes making him wish he'd popped the morphling pill when he had the chance, "they're strong and clever. If the odds aren't already in their favour, I have some leverage here in the Capitol I may be able to swing."

Heavensbee gives a hearty chuckle. "That's the spirit. You're good to your tributes, Odair; that's what I've always garnered from you. You really _do_ care about them, don't you?"

Momentarily tongue-tied, Finnick shrugs with a charming smile. "If it's another victory for my district, I'll do everything I can."

The gamemaker appears unsatisfied with his answer, and his smile starts to fade.

Finnick adds quickly, with more honesty than charm, "They're good kids, all the ones I've mentored so far. Of course I'm rooting for them – they deserve to live."

Heavensbee nods slowly as they make their way towards the doors. With his hand on the knob, he checks both ways to ensure they're alone in the lobby and leans in to ask, "Can you keep a secret, Mr. Odair?"

Finnick has to chuckle – if only Heavensbee knew the crushing weight of secrets already resting on his shoulders. He replies, "Yes, sir."

"Between you and me," the gamemaker says, "I, too, believe they deserve to live." He backs away from Finnick and opens the door to let himself out. "Marvellous party," he announces, his voice rising. "And wonderful meeting you, Mr. Odair. I look forward to seeing you again soon."

He closes the door on his way out, leaving Finnick to mull over his confession with confusion and alarm.

* * *

><p>Victorless, Finnick returns to District 4 and his team of builders resume working on the house by the ocean as if no time has passed in between. As a group of victors, they understand it's best to ignore that the Games happened at all – even the more brutal, pro-Capitol victors, like Jarvis. Finnick is grateful for it, as he dreads reliving his near-succumbing to the temptation of morphling, his isolation from the mentors, and the night after night in which he sold his body to the highest bidder while Annie slept alone.<p>

Not even the peacekeepers mention the brief pause the Games brought on their building process, and they, too, pick up right where they left off: keeping a suffocating eye on the construction of the house in conjunction with the bylaws of the district. But Finnick is more careful. He sees the way Annie's eyes glimmer with delight when she visits and how she throws herself into little decorating projects with Mags. He won't risk anything anymore.

Until one afternoon when two peacekeepers patrol the surrounding area, determined as always to find fault with the project. One wanders up and down the road past the house and another stands one hundred yards inland, having roped a fairly young schoolgirl into conversation. It's not unheard of for peacekeepers to prey on younger girls – during his Capitol exploits, Finnick learned that in the poorer districts, some girls prostituted themselves to the guards to feed their families. But in District 4, one of the wealthier districts, the girls are harder to sway with promises of coin and must instead be tricked – or forced.

Using a pulley system with ropes, Annie sends a small basket of snacks up to Finnick and Qais, who work diligently on the roof. From their vantage point, they can see the peacekeeper across the way inching closer to the girl in conversation, brushing back her hair, caressing her waist.

"He'll get her," Qais says to Finnick as he grabs an apple from the basket. "Dirty bastard. No way she's more than fifteen."

Finnick shivers at the thought of Annie being so close to the corrupt Capitol men. Not so long ago, she was fifteen herself. The thought of her being preyed upon causes his stomach to flip uneasily.

Grabbing a roll from the basket, Finnick takes a bite and jokes, "Someone should throw something at him."

To his horror, Qais takes him up on his offer. He brings his arm back and hurls the apple across the beaten path, straight to the unassuming head of the peacekeeper.

The other peacekeeper, wandering up and down the path, springs to action at this assault. Whether or not he realizes it's just an apple, he removes what appears to be a gun from the holster on his back and points it directly at Qais. He's so stealthy about it that everyone is still looking at the first peacekeeper for his reaction – Finnick only catches a quick glimpse of him before he shoots.

There's no time for warnings. With the ghost of a laugh on his lips, Qais is hit in the calf, and the momentum – or the pain – is enough to knock him backwards off the scaffolding. Finnick tries to grab him, but he can't manoeuvre quickly enough across the shell of the roof. There's a scream – Annie's scream – as Qais drops fifteen feet to the ground.

And then everything seems to happen at once. Annie rushes to his aid, followed closely by Jarvis and the other contributing victors. The first peacekeeper abandons his schoolgirl and begins to march across the street, thirsty for revenge. The second relaxes his weapon but is about to be approached by an incensed Roscoe Roe. Finnick shuffles along the ledge of the roof and climbs down the scaffolding, trying to decide what is more important: Qais, who lies unconscious on the ground; Annie, who's overwhelmed by the activity and, though she struggles to remain calm and be a help to the wounded victor, takes deep breaths and squeezes her eyes shut over and over; or Roscoe, who is about to tell off the peacekeepers and get himself killed.

By the time he jumps to the ground, Finnick's mind is made up. He takes off at a run after Roscoe, hoping he's not too late.

Even with all the commotion behind them, Roscoe's voice rings out clearly. "Damn scoundrels!" he calls out, shaking his fist at the peacekeeper who shot Qais. "Dirty, good-for-nothing, money-hungry, rotten—"

"Roscoe!" Finnick shouts, alarmed at the rage building in the peacekeeper's eyes.

But that doesn't stop the old fishmonger. "—couldn't see a real threat if it punched you in the throat, mindless, thoughtless, heartless—"

The peacekeeper scorned by an apple strides by, intent on causing damage.

"Wait!" Finnick says helplessly, but he's shrugged off by the peacekeeper who forges ahead. He's longing to take off after him, but he has to assume that Jarvis or another big-boned victor will be able to calm him down on-site.

Finnick turns his attentions back to Roscoe and the second peacekeeper.

"—spending all your resources on a damn house being built rather than patrolling the district for real crime, Snow's sure lucky to have a group of fools like you—"

That does it. The peacekeeper lifts the butt of his gun and is about to bring it crashing down on Roscoe's head. Finnick lunges forward and grabs hold of the weapon before it can make contact, knocking Roscoe out of the way to the dusty ground. Face-to-face with the peacekeeper with both of their hands on the weapon, Finnick knows apologies are his best bet, no matter how insincere.

"Look, he didn't—" Finnick begins to say. He's cut off by the man's fist connecting with his cheekbone. He staggers backwards, nearly tripping over Roscoe's body from the blow.

"Who are you to talk that way to me?" the peacekeeper demands.

Once Finnick steadies himself, his blood is bubbling with fury. He charges at the peacekeeper with renewed strength, ripping the weapon right from his hands and throwing it to the ground. The peacekeeper wears armour but his neck is unprotected, and that's exactly where Finnick's hands are reaching. They struggle and scuffle with one another as Roscoe mutters bitterly on the ground, and suddenly, the air is pierced with another scream.

Both the victor and the peacekeeper pause to examine the scene behind them. Finnick's heart stops; he blinks to do a double-take.

The house is ablaze. In his infinite fury, the other peacekeeper set it on fire.

There's screaming and yelling as the flames lick the baseboards, rising slowly up the walls. A group begins to carry the unconscious Qais out of the burning house. Another group rushes down the beach for water to quell the flames.

No one thinks to apprehend the peacekeeper. When it comes to fighting back, even a group of victors are paralyzed with helplessness.

But Finnick's spirit, though bent and misshapen, has not yet been entirely crushed by the Capitol. And as soon as he catches sight of Annie amidst the chaos, fallen to her knees and dragged away by the peacekeeper with her eyes squeezed shut and hands blocking her ears, his determination to overthrow the powerful surges in his chest.

Leaving the second peacekeeper behind, he jets across the pathway without a second thought, grimacing at the searing embers that land on his skin. The guard turns as he approaches, hauling Annie to her feet and ignoring the flames that inch closer and closer. Finnick has every intention of breaking his neck, but when the guard holds his gun to Annie's temple, he stops dead in his tracks.

With skinned knees and ashen streaks on her face, Annie keeps her hands over her ears and pleads tearfully, "Don't make me go back in there, I won't go, don't take me there!"

Finnick holds up his hands so as not to provoke the guard, but still orders him to let her go.

The peacekeeper is amused by the situation, cocking his head with a nasty smile. "Think you can always have your own way, Odair?" he yells over the commotion. "Think everyone in Panem lives to kiss the ground you walk on?"

"She didn't have anything to do with this," Finnick says as evenly as he can. "You can let her go."

"'Give me a reason,' Snow said to us," recites the peacekeeper. "'You prove she's insane, she comes back to the Capitol. Odair agreed to it himself,' Snow said."

"My name is Annie Cresta," Annie says loudly to herself. "I live in District 4. I grew up with the sand and the waves and the sun."

"And what's this?" the peacekeeper asks, giving Annie a shake as if to prove a point. "She's barking mad!"

"You're hurting her!" Finnick cries, his own body jolting every time the peacekeeper jerks on Annie's hair.

"This house is a safety hazard!" the peacekeeper shouts as the flames slink closer. "And your girl is about to be locked away in the asylum where she belongs."

Finnick chokes on the smoke, haze clouding his mind as he tries to think on his feet. Before he can act, there's a blow to the back of his head and he tumbles to his knees. The pain is blinding, the blackness enveloping him and threatening to pull him under. He reaches a hand around his neck and pulls it away – his fingers are sticky and warm, slick with his own blood.

The second peacekeeper has returned to continue where they left off.

His head hangs low and he opens his eyes to stars. Black boots march around his body. The peacekeeper yanks his head up by his hair and delivers another swift punch.

He falls backward into the dirt, red spitting from his mouth. His vision is no longer in focus.

Flames. Blood. Smoke.

Annie's voice. "Don't hurt him!"

Pain. Scorching, biting pain.

He's yanked by his hair again. His eyes meet the blackened orbs of the bloodthirsty peacekeeper. He winds up his fist, ready for another strike.

"Been a long time coming, Odair," he hisses.

Annie screams. "No!"

He waits for the hit. He hears the impact but feels nothing. Is he dreaming? Dead?

Opening his bleary eyes, the body of the peacekeeper lays in front of him. He stares, confused. What hell is this?

A rough, edgy voice. "There's more of us'n there are of you. Leave the girl and take your friend."

Just as Annie's thrown in their direction like a rag-doll, Finnick lifts his eyes. Above the unconscious body of the peacekeeper is Roscoe Roe, his mouth set in a hard line as he holds the peacekeeper's previously discarded weapon.

And as the standing peacekeeper shakes his partner to life and half-drags him away with grunts and curses, Roscoe mutters grumpily under his breath, "Hate them damned Capitol mutt bastards."

* * *

><p>Half of the house is charred. Qais is delivered to the medical center to be treated for a gunshot wound in the leg and a drop from the second storey. Elsie's husband follows with third-degree burns from dousing the flames with water. Finnick has a concussion, a bruised cheek and a long, thin strip of bandage wrapped around his forehead that applies pressure to the wound on the back of his head, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about any of it, not even if the peacekeepers report the events to Snow and he has to pay for it later with his own blood.<p>

All he cares about is what he put Annie through, and watching her repeat her mantra to herself with deep breaths ("_I am Annie Cresta, I live in District 4_…") as Mags patches up her skinned knees fills him with grief. The incident has set her back months; he's sure of it, and he hates himself for being unable to prevent it. He's filled with such guilt and self-loathing that he's on the verge of tears when she takes his hand and asks him if he's ready to go home with her.

"Be gentle with her," Mags tells him in so many garbled words. "The best thing for her is comfort."

So when her eyes turn vacant and she drops from reality into nothingness, he holds her close and whispers familiarities in her ear. His weary voice breaks here and there, certain it's going to be a long night, but he's surprised to feel her trembling again, back to the present with just his soothing voice.

He expects to sleep in the chair again, but she waits for him in bed, clinging to him as he pulls the blankets over their bodies. She regards him with tenderness, gently grazing his purple cheek with her fingers. He turns his head slightly and kisses the palm of her hand to assure her that he's okay.

Sorrow rests in her sea green eyes.

"Finn?"

"Yes, Annie?"

With her hand still cupping his cheek, she thoughtfully traces his lower lip with her thumb. Such sweet sadness spills from her mouth as she says, "He called me mad today."

Finnick's lips part, but no words come. "I know," he finally admits. "I could have killed him. I know you hate when I say those things, but it's true."

She blinks. "Am I? Am I mad?"

He pauses, certain he can hear his own heart as it shatters for her.

"I'm mad," she states, looking to him for answers. "Real or not real?"

He promised her so long ago that he'd always be here to tell the truth.

"No, you're not mad," he murmurs, and his ears ring with her screams from earlier that day.

Annie lets her hand fall from his cheek and holds it to her chest. "What if I am?" she asks. Lowering her eyes, she recounts, "Sometimes I still hear the trees whispering to me. They tell me not to trust you; that you want me dead. When I dream, I dream of Mace, and when I wake I'm so sure, for the first few moments, that you're here to take me, too."

Finnick closes his eyes, her words paining him more than the blows to his skull.

"But you've never hurt me," she concludes. "Not once."

He runs a hand through her hair and rests his forehead against hers.

"If I'm not mad, then when will the screaming stop?" she asks him innocently, her voice a whisper. "All I hear is screaming."

His eyes open. He hears the screaming, too. Even in Annie's arms, it plagues him every night.

"The Arena took a piece of you," he tells her. "It took a piece of all of us. If you're mad, I'm mad. We're all mad."

Her eyes pool with tears. "But he only said me." She squeezes her eyes shut as a tear slips out. "What did they do to me, Finn? Who did they make me become?"

With resolve, he hugs her tightly, kissing her wet eyelids. "You listen," he tells her, looking deep into those sea green eyes. "It changes all of us, being in there. You're better than the rest of us and that's why it's affected you the most. But I think you're perfect. You help me every day. You don't belong in a safe house; you belong in a little house by the sea. You belong with me."

"And I want to stay with you," she says.

"You will," he assures her. "I won't let them take you."

"What if they take _you_?" Annie asks worriedly, gripping his shirt in her fist. "What if they take you away to the Capitol?"

"I'll come back," he says. In theory, it's all so easy – but one flashback to Snow's snakelike eyes is all he needs to know it will never be easy.

"There are all those Capitol women," Annie muses. "With their funny hair and skin. They look at you like you're a toy. Will you leave me for them?"

"I'm never gonna leave you," he promises, kissing her forehead.

"What if there's someone else?"

Finnick pulls back and studies her with a frown, smoothing her tangled hair behind her ear. In her eyes there rests genuine concern.

He kisses her gently on the lips and promises her one last truth: "I'll never love another."

She holds his gaze, and when he does not falter, she nods her belief in his words, nestling comfortably into the crook of his neck.

"Finn?"

"Yes, Annie?"

"Say that to me when I wake up screaming," she murmurs against his throat, "and I'll come back to you."

* * *

><p><strong>Happy Sunday! You guys are awesome and I feel very lucky that you're giving my story a chance. That is all. <strong>


	14. let your ships roll in

**Chapter 14:** _73__rd__ Annual Hunger Games_

Finnick doesn't abandon the house by the sea, not even for a day. The morning after the fire, he's up at dawn, gently rousing Annie from sleep to kiss her cheek and tell her not to follow him; he'll be back for supper. He wakes with a fresh perspective and such strong resolve, it jars him to life. He'll finish the house. He'll give Annie a home, and no one has the right to take it away from her.

The ocean is wild today. The waves climb higher and higher and the sun doesn't have room to peek out amongst the dark clouds. A storm is in the making, but Finnick figures he still has time before the downpour. In the solitude of the early morning, he begins by clearing the charred remains that clutter the base of the house. Broken, burnt wood is scattered across the flooring, but there are also blackened logs still standing that need to be disassembled. Finnick takes a deep breath, grabs an axe and starts to destroy, imagining every blow is Snow's neck, envisioning his icy eyes closing for the last time.

By the time he's taken down half of his creation, he's perspiring, panting, and grunting with exertion – and no less angry. His mood matches the violent weather. He's relieved he asked Annie not to visit him today.

The axe is laid to rest as he moves to a task more gruelling: removing the soot and rubble in order to start anew. He's almost grateful for the ominous skies and cold gusts of wind – better than the scorching sun beating down, and still he finds himself too warm, so he removes his shirt and scratches uncomfortably underneath the bandage around his forehead. Still, he doesn't take a break; he won't rest until he has something to work with. Even with an ache in his side, he spends all morning lugging heavy logs across the road where, after the storm, he'll set it on fire and toast it once and for all.

Though his hands are blistered from the axe, he's diligently chopping a larger block of lumber into more manageable pieces when he hears footsteps scuffing along the beaten path. He clenches his teeth and sends one final swing of the axe into the lumber, to be considered a warning to the intruder of his solitude. A peacekeeper would be sorry to cross him today.

As he straightens, huffing for breath and running a hand through his hair, damp with sweat, he sees the trespasser as if it's the first time they've laid eyes on each other: he's tall, built, with bronze hair and a sculpted jawline. It would almost be like looking into a mirror if it weren't for the other's muted grey eyes.

His mother's eyes.

Fletcher approaches what remains of the house with curiosity. When Finnick stares him in the eyes, he stiffens, his feet grounding to a halt in the dirt. For a few moments that seem to last an eternity, the two brothers size each other up – it's only been four years, but to each other, they appear as though they've aged a lifetime. Finnick wears the defeated eyes of a victor while Fletcher's hands are calloused and scarred from years of tying knots and fashioning hooks.

It scares Finnick that he can no longer read the expression on his brother's face – his eyes burn, but it's with something other than anger; his lips scowl, but the scowl isn't directed at him.

Fletcher speaks first. With a nod of his head, he gestures to the ashes behind Finnick. "I saw the flames from the water yesterday," he says. "They did this to you?"

Warily, Finnick nods, his shoulders rising rapidly with every breath.

A frown crosses his face. "Why?"

Finnick releases a breath of a laugh. "I've never really been in the president's favour."

This confuses Fletcher, whose eyebrows knit instantly. Over the crashing waves, he asks, "Then why do you do it? Go to their Games, seduce their women?"

Finnick's shoulders sag with resignation – if anyone should know of Snow's perversities, it should be his brother. "Because I have a woman of my own to keep safe," he answers. With a shrug, he adds, "That's what all of this is for, Fletch. To keep her safe."

The older brother considers this as he walks slowly to the house, assessing the damage. "The Cresta girl?" he asks to clarify.

The look in Finnick's eyes confirms it.

"I remember her," Fletcher nods as he examines the state of the house. "Not just from the Games, either – I remember her scrawny little legs chasing after you into the ocean."

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Finnick stands still as a cool breeze sweeps by.

Fletcher glances at him over his shoulder before picking up a burnt stone. He throws it in the air and catches it, remarking, "You could've been free. Without her, they'd have nothing more to hold against you."

It's been brought to his attention more than enough times – usually by a likeminded Johanna.

"They would've had you," Finnick says. "Your family." He thinks of Fletcher's wife, Kessie Frey – Kessie _Odair_ – and his child, Finnick's niece or nephew. Though he's never met them, they're an extension of his brother. They're Finnick's family all the same.

Fletcher freezes, the stone gripped in his fist. He casts down his gaze, muttering, "That would have mattered, after everything?"

"Yes," is Finnick's simple reply. "You can't help who you love. You're born with it, or it creeps up on you."

After a short pause in which he digests Finnick's words, Fletcher begins to throw and catch the stone again. His eyes scan the healthy section of the house. "You did all this?" he asks.

"With a little help."

Fletcher nods slowly. "The help knows nothing about construction, huh?"

Finnick tilts his head, amusement playing at the corners of his lips. "Think you could do better?"

Even through the back of his head, Finnick can see his brother rolling his eyes. "I'm the son with work ethic and years of practice. Of course I can."

Finnick chuckles, taking a few steps forward. "I'd hire you," he says, "but I suppose the fishmongers wouldn't be happy about that."

Fletcher flashes him a strange glance. Pointing to the waves, he asks, "On a day like today? I'd like to see you steer a boat in this weather. Brother, how you made it out of the Games with a net and a trident is beyond me."

Revisits to the Arena are always horrific, but today, Finnick finds a grin on his face. _Brother_. He hasn't heard the word in so long; hasn't dared to think it, but it sounds so natural, like it's only been minutes rather than years.

"A fisherman I may not be," Finnick says in good nature, "but I can fish."

"I doubt it," Fletcher deadpans with the same dryness Finnick hears so often in his own replies. "Can't build, either. You're all for show."

With a short laugh, Finnick picks up a log and thrusts it in Fletcher's arms. "Then clear this place with me and show me what I'm doing wrong."

The wind whistles angrily as the two brothers set to work.

* * *

><p>The other victors take a step back from working on the house. Finnick doesn't blame them – in fact, he's relieved. He'd rather not feel responsible for their injuries and the peacekeepers' hatred of them. He's better off working alone – and sometimes, on especially blustery, cool days not suited for fishing, with Fletcher.<p>

For a long time, the two of them work in near-silence, only opening their mouths to throw mocking jibes at one another. But after a month or two, Finnick musters the courage to ask Fletcher about his wife and child. He's just curious, that's all, and if Fletcher doesn't respond, he'll understand.

But Fletcher _does_ respond. As they work, he tells Finnick all about Kessie Frey, the red-haired, soft-spoken beauty who lived with her father down by the quay. He had to beg with her father for her hand in marriage, but after proving to him he was born and bred to fish and Kessie would never go hungry, her father agreed. They wed the next month and, with his meagre savings, purchased a modest home down by the wharf. Bellamy, their vivacious daughter, is nearly three and begging for a younger sister. Their quiet, happy life leaves an empty longing in Finnick's chest, but he does not envy his brother. If anything, Fletcher's modest life comforts him.

The peacekeepers are seen less frequently patrolling the house, and Finnick wonders why. Fletcher informs him that the day the house was set ablaze, the two peacekeepers on guard stormed into town and marched to the Mayor's Building. After receiving no grounds for arrest of Finnick, Qais, or even Roscoe Roe, they took their complaints directly to Snow. It seemed that Snow had other things on his mind – that, or a far worse punishment in store for Finnick. But he won't live on the cusp of fear, for he never forgets that he, too, holds a special kind of power that not even Snow is privy to. He just needs the right time; the opportune moment – and then he and Annie, Mags and Roscoe, Fletcher and Kessie and Bellamy can all walk free.

But life worsens for the poorer in District 4, for they're the ones Snow cares for not and the ones the peacekeepers are most likely to abuse. Coming straight from the heart of the district, Fletcher brings him news of public whippings, nights in the tank for pocketing even the smallest percentage of their catch for the day, and fair, innocent girls made to spread their legs for armed men who leave them with scars and bruises - both physical and mental.

Finnick expects to feel fear, but he only feels a stony resolve to continue on. All of this because Snow didn't give the peacekeepers what they wanted. All of this because the president prefers to exact revenge on his own terms: a crueller, slower death.

He wants Finnick's head, the glorious smile and dancing eyes of the victor mounted on the wall of his mansion for all to see.

But Finnick won't go down unless Snow goes with him.

* * *

><p>He can't resist the tiny white capsule this time. While genteel ladies stroke him with their fluorescent fingernails and trail their lips over his sunkissed skin, he hears the drug screaming his name and feels it slip through his organs ever-so-warmly. "We're all dead anyway," Calix says to him. "Might as well live in heaven over hell."<p>

And then, with a body like air and eyes adrift, he steals their secrets, feeling nothing but weightlessness.

He floats to his own quarters with whispers in his pockets, tales of treachery and lust and greed. A little boy's traumatic upbringing driving him to a life of hate, revenge, and absolute power. What a strange world, the Capitol.

In the stiff, spacious bed in the darkest hours of night, he shakes violently, cold sweat leaking from his pores. He searches for another of those miracle tablets but his limbs are too heavy; his body too spent. The terrors of the Arena become evermore vivid until he's certain they're no longer just in his mind. And he reaches out for comfort – a hand to hold, a body to squeeze – only to find that he's reaching for someone who isn't there.

If this is heaven, he'd sooner burn in hell.

* * *

><p>"You look like ass." Johanna snorts to herself as she says the words, receiving the utmost enjoyment from insulting the appearance of the golden Finnick Odair.<p>

"Thank you, madam," Finnick grumbles as he plops down on the sofa in the Recreational Room. He holds a mug of tea in his shaky hands – it's the only thing he can stomach after a dreadfully long night sweating out every toxin in his body.

From across the room, he earns a glare from Theia of 9, clearly bitter that she's spent all evening watching her tributes onscreen while he's been lazily mingling with Capitol folk and has sponsors to show for it.

He ignores her, accepting her judgment as it is. Nowadays he's hard-pressed to find a friend amongst the mentors – they snicker at his desirability, growl at his popularity. Even Gloss and Cashmere from 1 – or Threadbare and Sandpaper, as dubbed by Johanna – snub him, though they each rack up an impressive amount of patrons themselves.

Johanna's one he's never been able to shake. The other mentors' increasing dislike of him only seems to make her like him more. If she weren't so dangerous, he'd appreciate the inextinguishable fire that burns within her solely to defy everyone's expectations.

"I hope the wench was kind enough to open her heart to you after she opened her legs," Johanna mutters.

"She was," Finnick nods. "They both were."

Johanna makes a gagging sound at the mention of two women at once. Still, she takes a bite of the tart she holds and asks, "Care to share a secret or two?"

The lumber trade didn't come without a cost, of course, and when the time came to make the deal two years ago, Finnick had to barter something that Johanna truly wanted.

As it turned out, she desired Snow's secrets just as much as he. He kept some for himself; the ones that may be too hazardous in the hands of the fiery Johanna, but some he gave away. It was mutually beneficial, as the weight on his shoulders was ever so slightly lighter.

"Not here," he mutters.

Johanna glances lazily around the room. "No one's listening. Snow's too busy reviewing the edited tribute footage to be scanning through all his bugged corners in the Capitol and beyond."

Finnick glares at her. He hates when she speaks so openly, for the truth is that the corners _are_ bugged, and sooner or later, Snow will get around to listening.

"Not now," he snaps.

Rolling her eyes and pursing her lips, Johanna crosses her arms and sits back on her chair. "You know, I think I like you better when you try to work your transparent charm on me. Grumpiness doesn't suit you."

"It sure suits you."

"Of course it does," she says with an air of pride. "And I get no greater pleasure than knowing it pisses off Snow and there's nothing he can do about it. Last night while you were rolling around naked in jewels and money, he sent one of his gamemakers to try to get a treasonous comment out of me."

Her chatter gives him a headache, but he can't help himself from asking, "What?"

"Yeah," she continues, "guy named Heavensbee. Kind of fat, even jollier than you. Said he saw me roll my eyes as Snow gave his standard speech at the tribute parade and asked what I thought of Panem's leader. Nobody asks that kind of question these days – he was bugged, I'm positive. What Snow'll do with my comments, I don't know."

Finnick frowns, recognizing the name - _Heavensbee_. The man who thought the tributes deserved to live. "What did you say?" he asks.

She flashes him an award-winning smile. "Bugged or not, I don't pass up the opportunity to speak my mind. What do you think I said?"

Reality begins to terrify him, and he wishes he'd asked Calix for just one more pill, just to get him through the day. Maybe two. Or just enough to survive the Games, however many that may be.

"Dammit, Jo," he hisses, "you'll get yourself killed." _And you'll take me along with you_.

She throws her head back and laughs. "I'd love to see them try. While I may not have visited the bedroom of every woman in the Capitol, they still know who I am. They'd notice if I was gone. What plausible excuse can you give for the death of a young victor without arousing suspicion?"

Paranoid that someone, somehow, is eavesdropping, Finnick begins to tap his knee in apprehension.

"The stupidest thing you can do is underestimate him," he warns her. An Avox approaches them with a tray and he quickly changes the subject. "There were no deaths yesterday. I bet the gamemakers will find a way to draw a few tributes close together today. Maybe the Careers and the 10 and 11 alliance?"

Johanna shakes her head at him, refusing to dignify his forced comment with a reply. The Avox lowers the tray to his eye level, but biscuits and tarts make him queasy. The itch for another shot of morphling is so strong that he's barely above racing across the room and begging Calix for another of his mind-changing, body-numbing pills. Gulping down his instincts, Finnick picks up a couple of sugar cubes from the tray. He's about to drop one in his tea when he changes his mind and instead pops it, whole, into his mouth.

The Avox continues on her way, leaving Johanna staring at him curiously.

He holds out his hand to her. "Sugar cube?"

She rejects his offer and narrows her eyes. "Something happened to you," she says suspiciously. "You're all dishevelled and out of sorts." With a mocking gasp, she cries, "Did someone neglect to kiss the ground you walk on between your suite and the Recreational Room?"

With his head throbbing, Finnick ignores her, sinking deeper into the sofa and imagining that the sugar melting onto his tongue is the sweet release of morphling that takes him away.

* * *

><p>In District 4, Finnick rarely craves the morphling or its weak substitute, sugar cubes. He has enough to keep him occupied with finishing the house and can't imagine slipping into another world when he's with Annie. But Annie slips – she fades away sometimes, lost in her mind. Together, Finnick's learned to call her back and she's learned to respond, but often, he lets her be, knowing she's safely removed from reality.<p>

"Is it draining?" Fletcher asks him one afternoon as they fit the glass windows into the walls. Annie sits fifty yards away in the sand, staring blankly at the ocean. "Always having to be strong for her?"

While Fletcher continues to work on the window, Finnick takes a moment to check on her down the beach. She hasn't moved in over an hour, as he suspected.

"No," he answers with a slight shake of his head. "If I didn't have Annie, I'd have nothing to be strong for at all."

Fletcher nods, though Finnick's not entirely sure he understands. No one could understand unless they'd lived the crushing, all-consuming lonely life of a victor.

Or unless they were Annie, who understood him long before she became a victor herself.

* * *

><p>The effects of the morphling wear off, and with the steady, rhythmic waves of District 4, so do the temptations. But one thing is increasingly difficult to shake, and that's his edgy, superficial personality.<p>

Annie hates it.

But he can't help it, sometimes – doesn't even notice that it's in him as he sneaks up behind her in the kitchen and asks in a low purr, "Miss Annie, what can I get you for dinner?"

Or when he holds a door open for her and winks, saying, "After you, my lady."

Or when they're stopped by a group of star-struck young girls on their way to the District Courtyard for one of Annie's sessions and he says to them, "I'd be lucky to have tributes as pretty as you."

"Do you think you're in the Capitol sometimes, Finnick?" Annie asks him one evening after he offers her his sweatshirt on the chilly beach, followed by a seductive comment. "Is that why you use that voice?"

He glances sideways at her, wrapping herself in his shirt to keep warm. "What voice?" he returns.

"Your Capitol voice," she answers. "The one you use to seduce, and for Caesar Flickerman's interviews, and to keep your tributes light."

He says nothing, but stares uncomfortably at the ground. They don't speak much of his trips to the Capitol – he hates to be reminded; hates knowing she's seen snippets of him on television when he can't be beside her to explain himself.

"Every time you use it, I feel like one of your Capitol women. Like I have you completely, but just for one night."

He cringes. "I'm sorry," he says. "I hate that I'm used to it and that I can't even tell anymore when it's in me. I just… being someone else in the Capitol is the only way I can keep a little part of myself."

"I like your real voice," she says thoughtfully as they wander down the strip of beach. "It's much more convincing to me."

He likes Annie's voice, too. And he likes her laughter. He _loves_ her laughter. It carries like a tune from her lips and dances lightly in his ears. He'd do anything to make her laugh.

So would Roscoe, it seems, though Roscoe doesn't realize it. Annie never laughs harder than when she's cracking up at the old grump and his bitter, barely-important complaints. When the victors and Roscoe gather for Mags' eightieth birthday celebration, Roscoe is his usual cranky self despite the joyous occasion – and it has Annie in stitches.

Finnick can't thank him enough. Roscoe gave him a job when he was young, risked his life to defend him against the peacekeepers, and brings a lively smile to Annie's face.

He watches her from across the room, eyes alight and nose scrunched in amusement. He's mesmerized by her simple movements and the crinkles just outside her eyes. It's certain that Annie's been genuine every moment of her life. She never saw a reason not to be.

He's spent so much of his time being someone else – charming, confident, seductive, lethal. He honed his personas so carefully that he can turn any one of them on in an instant; be whoever he needs to be with a moment's notice.

Finnick crosses the room and joins the giggling Annie on the sofa. He throws an arm around her shoulders and exchanges with her a knowing smile. With Annie, he's never needed any of those personas. He can be like her: genuine, true. Those traits would have been lost in him if it weren't for her.

She's the only reason he still knows how to be himself at all.

* * *

><p>On a warm, breezy day near the outskirts of District 4, Fletcher helps his brother move the last of Annie's belongings into her seaside house. Finnick can hardly believe it's real, but the house is complete. There's nothing left to do but live in it.<p>

Fletcher, though a fisherman by trade and only able to offer his talents every so often, was a large contributor to the redeveloped design and construction of the house, whether he realizes it or not. In fact, Finnick isn't confident he would have had the stamina or the expertise to complete the project on his own after the fire. While the finished product is long overdue and he relishes the moment he can present it to Annie in its completion, he can't help but regret that it's over. Epiphanies have struck him in the construction process – ideas for which he feels strongly but does not look forward to enforcing with his brother.

The last of their haul is unloaded from the wagon and Fletcher dumps a crate in the center of the common room, straightening to wipe the sweat from his brow.

"It's a decent shack," he tells his brother, whom he follows outside the sliding doors facing the ocean. Patting Finnick on the shoulder, he adds, "You're good to her."

With a slight chuckle, Finnick replies demurely, "Not as good as she deserves." They stand on the porch overlooking the sea and watch the waves roll in. Finnick is first to break the comfortable silence, turning to his brother to say, "Thank you. For all of this. If you ever need… if there's anything I can give…"

Fletcher shakes his head. "I never did it for that."

Finnick nods. He knows.

Fletcher wets his lips, scratching his hair in contemplation. As if it's been perched on the tip of his tongue all this time, he blurts out, "Kessie's pregnant again."

After a moment of shock, a genuine smile registers on Finnick's features. "You're kidding. Congratulations, Fletch. That's… you must be…"

"Yeah," Fletcher finishes for him with a clipped laugh. "She'd clobber me with a wooden spoon if she knew I told you – you're supposed to wait until it's three months along and all."

Finnick wonders if Fletcher already knows what he has to say – if that's why he shared his family secret earlier than intended. With a forced smile, Finnick nods and assures him in what he's certain is his superficial Capitol voice, "I'm good at keeping secrets."

Silence engulfs them once more. Finnick drums his fingers on the rail, dreading the goodbye.

"She looks like mom, you know," Fletcher pipes up. "Bellamy. She has Kessie's strawberry hair and pale skin, but she has mom's eyes. _My_ eyes."

As he faces the ocean, Finnick shuts his eyes to imagine her, little three-year-old Bellamy with Dixie's grey eyes and bouncy red curls. The mention of their mother strengthens Finnick's resolve in what he has to say.

"Do you want to meet her someday?" Fletcher asks, careful in his approach. "She'd be thrilled to know she has an uncle."

Finnick's not surprised to learn that he's been kept a secret from his niece. Who would want a murdering, morphling-addicted sex slave for an uncle? Though it hurts, he shakes his head. "No," he declines, staring at his hands as he grips the wooden rail. "I want to – I'm sure she's beautiful – but it's better this way. We can't risk it."

"Risk what?"

"You _know_ what," Finnick snaps. "You know better than anyone what they'll do to the people I love. You were right to do what you did all those years ago. You abandoned me, and that way you didn't have to die for me. If it was just you, and you sought me out on your own terms… but you have a family now. You have to protect them."

"And you'd live your life alone?" Fletcher asks, anger in his tone.

Solemn, Finnick nods. "It's the only way."

"What about Annie?"

"That's the cross I bear," says Finnick. "Not the Capitol women, not the morphling, not the Games… but Annie. She's the knot I can't untie. I can't leave her; can't push her away. Not only would it kill me, but they'd see right through me. Hold her against me all the same."

"She's your family," Fletcher remarks softly. "More of a family than I've ever been. If I protect my family, then you protect yours."

Finnick chews his lip. "I intend to."

"How?"

He turns away from the sea, stepping closer to his brother so they stand nose-to-nose. "By killing Snow," he says darkly. Keeping his voice low, he continues, "I don't know when, and I don't know how, but I'm gonna kill him. And then, if I have time, I'll kill every last Capitol citizen who had a hand in her fate."

He isn't sure why he said it. For all he knows, the peacekeepers could have bugged the surrounding area by now and he'll be dead by morning. He owes his brother an explanation, that's all – and his desire for retribution isn't simply for Annie, but for Leander. Dixie. People Fletcher loved, too.

Fletcher doesn't flinch at his words. Instead, he nods slowly, patting his brother on the shoulder as a goodbye and good luck.

"I remember what they used to say about you," he muses. "Life'll come easy to the boy with the golden smile."

Finnick chuckles without a hint of humour. "And when the golden smile fades away, shit rains down on him from the skies."

Fletcher manages to crack a grin. "It couldn't have been me. I know that now." He pauses, adding as an afterthought, "But it shouldn't have been you, either."

Finnick shrugs bleakly. "What did I have going for me, anyway?"

His elder brother catches his eyes for one last time before they part ways, his last words the saddest Finnick's ever heard: "Only everything."

* * *

><p>The next day, bright and clear, is Annie's first in a house built just for her. Finnick helps her to arrange furniture and unpack kitchenware, but the weather is so perfect that they must take advantage of it. They swim, bask in the sun, and Annie follows a cluster of crabs a quarter of a mile along the shoreline. As the sun begins to dip, they pick up their discarded belongings and brush the sand off the soles of their feet.<p>

"I don't have to say goodbye to the ocean today," Annie remarks as they go indoors. "Every time I long to see it, I can just look out my bedroom window."

Finnick watches her with a smile – she steps a little lighter today, the sun giving her skin a radiance he hasn't seen in her in years.

In the kitchen, she turns on heel without warning and presses a kiss to his lips. "Thank you," she breathes. "Finn… thank you."

He humbly shrugs off her gratitude. "Are you hungry?" he asks.

But Annie doesn't want to change the subject. She narrows her eyes in search of something more. "No," she says carefully. "Are you?"

Holding her gaze, he gives a subtle shake of his head. He follows her to her bedroom, where he's set up her bed with the canopy. It faces the sliding doors to the porch and two semicircular windows so that the sun will stream in and keep the blankets warm for the evenings.

Inside her bedroom, Annie wraps an arm around his neck and runs a hand down the side of his face. "Thank you," she breathes again, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. He melts into her instantly, bending to her will as he parts his lips to taste the salt on her tongue. His hands find her hips and travel up along her back as she wraps her arms around him tighter, kisses him harder.

As one, they fall back on the white sheets of the bed – white because it's brighter, cleaner – and the late afternoon sun streams in, coating them in warmth. His lips travel from her mouth across her cheek, her ear and down her neck. With every kiss and every lick he tastes salt and sand and sunshine and it all tastes like_ Annie_. She clutches him with a different need than he's ever felt before, like she's truly in the present moment and in no danger of fading away.

With gentle nudges, she encourages him to flip over and straddles his waist, hovering over him to kiss him deeply. He's never stared up at anything so welcoming and begs her to pause so he can drink her in.

Hands firmly on her hips, he sighs, "You're so beautiful."

She smiles, dark hair cascading over her shoulders and covering them like a veil. She leans forward, whispering back, "I love you."

Another kiss, painful in its honesty.

"What is it?" she asks, pulling away and noting the faint frown on his face.

"It's…" he begins, unsure how to put his thoughts into words. Finally, he asks desperately, "How can you love me, knowing who I am? What I've done?"

Her bright green eyes soften. She traces the outline of his jaw, replying demurely, "The same way you can love a mad, mad girl."

She sits back, still straddling him as he props himself up on his elbows. He insists, "You're not mad."

Her lips are set in a thin line, but she doesn't argue. Instead, she exhales deeply. "I don't feel it, today. When you kiss me, the screaming stops. Blood doesn't rain down the walls."

For a brief moment, Finnick grits his teeth, hating the images and sounds the Capitol has conjured for her. Determined, he places a hand on her shoulder. "Then I won't stop."

With her body moulded against his, he's pressed down into the mattress, clutching her bare thigh that rises to his waist. Annie throws her hair to one side and peppers him with short, sweet kisses, smiling against his lips. She is the cool rain that douses his raging fire; the breath of fresh air to breeze through his flaring temper, and he knows without a doubt that there has never been any other for Finnick Odair. Under different circumstances, he may have been a poor fisherman or a triumphant athlete, but no matter what, he would always have been made for her.

"Does it all feel the same, Finn?" Annie asks, running her thumb along his cheekbone. "Me and those Capitol girls… every kiss, every touch? Is it always this way?" She pauses, adding as an afterthought, "I've only ever known you."

He gives her an oddly comical stare, replying, "No, it's not the same. You feel entirely different to me."

"Different…" she trails off, pondering his words. Even in her thoughtful confusion, she captivates him; heart, body and soul. Without shame or judgment, she finally asks, "Is that why we've never made love?"

He blinks. That was unexpected. With a shake of his head, he carefully replies, "No."

"I'm different from them," she reasons. He keeps his eyes patiently focused on her. "It's not like that with us. Am I wrong to feel anything?"

His brows knot, torn by her words. "No, that's not it," he assures her, encompassing her wrist in his hand and then sliding up to interlock their fingers. His voice cracks with emotion as he says, "I feel it every day. Every time I look at you. I want you more than… I've always wanted you."

He watches in fascination as her teeth graze her lower lip. "Then why?" she asks.

With a gulp, Finnick replies, "Because, it's… you deserve more than me. I don't want you to give yourself to me when I can't fully give back."

Breath from her parted lips fans across his cheek. For her own understanding, she elaborates, "Because they make you give yourself to those other women."

He gives a slow, sad nod.

The mechanics whirl in her mind; he sees it in her eyes. After a few heavy seconds, she untangles her fingers from his hair and places her hand flat on his chest, right over his heart. Her palm slides until she can feel its rhythmic beat.

"Who does this belong to?" she asks.

Their eyes connect, and he's never been more truthful as he answers, "To you."

"Has anyone else ever held it?"

He shakes his head. "No one."

She ponders more, adding, "And you've had mine all this time. You kept it safe." She slides her palm back up to his face, cupping his cheek and asking, "Isn't that enough?"

He wets his lips, closing his eyes as he nods. She descends on him again, capturing his lips with smouldering heat and determination he's never felt from her before. A fire rages inside, a different kind of fire than his raging temper – it starts as a slow burn in his chest, spreading lower and lower until every pore in his skin emits his need for her. He takes control and moves over her, quivering with anticipation and need. This kind of hunger is unbeknownst to him, but it aches so deeply in his bones that he suspects it's always been there, painfully ignored until now.

Deliberate fingers trace the lines in his back as his rough hands follow the natural planes of her stomach. She arches under his touch and he finds himself bewitched by her slightly parted lips, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. So many women have lain beneath him, but this is the first time he bids himself not to close his eyes. He's fascinated by the response he earns from his beautiful Annie, the one who holds his heart in such careful hands.

He never knew it could feel this way. That it could feel guiltless and serene and comfortable and heavenly and _right_.

If it's true what they say – if she's mad – then he'll gladly descend into madness alongside her, for it's a beautiful, distant place where all he can see is stars.

* * *

><p><strong>I really want to thank you guys again for all your reviews, alerting, favourite-ing and silent reading :) I had no expectations in venturing back into fan fiction and posting this story and it's turned out to be a really positive experience, all thanks to YOU! <strong>

**While I'm excited to keep working on the next chapter and to share it with you next week, I'm also feeling a bit nervous about it and its subsequent chapters... as you may have figured out, this is where _Knotted _will intersect with the first book in the series. There's just so much that I can do wrong! In any event, I've still got a plan - it's changed slightly over the writing of the last four or five chapters, but it's still a plan. So I'll just retreat into my writing bubble and fiercely hope that I'm not making any grave mistakes.**

**I wish you all a happy holiday weekend and I'll see you next Sunday!**


	15. fly up to the surface

**Chapter 15:** _74__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

They say he's lithe and agile, light on his feet, but Finnick feels the heavy lagging in his bones each time he stares out the window of the train as it approaches the twinkling lights of the Capitol. His heart is a brick, sitting deadweight in his chest. Mags and Beetee, Chaff and Haymitch say it's all the same in time – it never gets easier, you just grow immune to it. Every dead tribute added to your leaden conscience becomes just another number. But how can it all be the same, he wonders, when every tribute has a sparkle in their eyes unique only to them?

His tributes this year are volunteers – not uncommon in District 4, though less common than in Districts 1 and 2 and certainly more common than all other districts. They're born and bred to perceive winning as the greatest honour. Finnick hopes they also consider death a glorious sacrifice – no matter how trained and lethal, only one comes out, after all.

Tapping his fingers mindlessly on the mahogany chest in his compartment on the train, Finnick mistakenly lets his mind wander to Annie. There's an ache in his chest; a twinge of pain in his gut as he thinks of her sleeping alone tonight. She'll be with Mags, of course – he pleaded with Mags not to mentor this year; to stay home and watch over her. Mags' mind was made and she was set to accompany him to the Capitol until Roscoe's passing just the week before. It was sudden and unexpected – his heart simply ceased to beat as he settled in for a quiet evening with his programs. Though the old grump proved to be a grievous loss, his death also brought Finnick relief: nonconformist and unrelenting, Roscoe passed in his own way and his own time, not at all orchestrated by the Capitol. Annie wept silently into his shoulder at the burial and arranged fresh flowers to adorn his tombstone, but ever since, she'd been further removed from reality and harder to call back to life. Mags finally agreed that she couldn't be left without a comforting, trustworthy face.

Annie needs the old mentor more than he does, though he knows it will be a lonely, painstaking Games without Mags' gentle but assertive guidance. Elsie is fine enough, but she's as desperate to get back to 4 as he and won't take a leading role with the tributes. She'll leave it to him.

"Finnick?" A sultry voice invades his thoughts. He turns to see the fish-lipped escort, Marcocia Duterre, standing in the doorway of his room, hips jutting out to one side. Her breasts, once simply 'larger than normal', are now_ 'impossibly_ large' in her puff-sleeved fuchsia blazer, and Finnick would bet Annie's seaside house that her face had received another few injections to keep its frightening, over-exaggerated youthfulness. Of all the people he's met in the Capitol – the traitors, the corrupt, the narcissistic, the greedy – she is certainly one of the most abhorrent.

"Dinner's prepared," Marcocia says. "Your tributes are waiting."

Finnick gives a dull nod, glancing out the window one last time. He dreads visiting the Capitol even more than usual, knowing that he'll be fetched by Radman – if not tonight, then tomorrow night, or the night after that – and expected to perform for a prominent chameleon-skinned, lusty-eyed, body-enhanced Capitol woman. She'll own him for the evening in the most intimate of ways, and he'll inwardly wince when she touches all the places Annie has once touched, cringe when she elicits the cries from him that should only be for Annie's ears.

With a steadying breath, he joins the two tributes, his co-mentor and the escort at the table wearing his typical Capitol grin. The boy is small and serious; the girl older, fuller and fiercer. Finnick imagines their parents toasting their sacrifices over a dinner of trout and rice.

After they gorge themselves on delicacies, they gather around the screen to watch a recap of all the Reaping Ceremonies of the day. District 1 and 2 tributes are volunteers, all much older than sixteen, all trained in the art of brutality and mercilessness. In Districts 3, 5 and 10, there are no volunteers, but the chosen tributes are cheered on. Districts 6, 7 and 9 feature polite clapping for those reaped, while 11 is utterly silent as a small wisp of a girl, no more than twelve, is reaped and no one volunteers to take her place.

When another tiny specimen is reaped in 12 and begins the slow death march to the stage, Finnick's female tribute gives a short laugh and remarks, "Are you kidding? This is almost too easy."

But then something remarkable happens. Another girl, older, dark-haired and hysterical, breaks rank from the crowd and volunteers. The citizens of 12 do not make a sound as the reaped girl is carried away, screaming for the one who took her place. The raven-haired volunteer realizes what she's done in a moment of painful clarity, but does not falter as she climbs the steps to be greeted by her district escort. She states her name to the escort, and it is revealed to all of Panem that she is the older sibling of the one who was reaped.

A volunteer from an outer district: unheard of.

"Better… but she's still not much," says his female tribute with arrogance like a natural Career.

Silently, Finnick agrees with her. The volunteer from 12 is not much at all, but as her on-looking district places three fingers to their lips and extends them to her as one, Finnick wonders if she may have done something big.

He thinks back to his own reaping. He was only fourteen, a poor fisherman's son never trained like his compatriots. He remembers staring into the crowd, dazed and tongue-tied, his mind whirling through blankness. The odds weren't in his favour then – nobody thought so, and yet nobody took his place. Even Fletcher – _especially_ Fletcher – sent him off to what they all thought was his death.

Oh, to be that little reaped girl who will go home safe tonight knowing she is deeply loved. To be inside the mind of the volunteer who has declared suicide.

While his tributes snicker, Finnick prays that her death be swift and painless.

* * *

><p>As he does every year, Caesar Flickerman finds a way to mention Finnick in the interviews with his tributes. And as they do every year, the cameras pan to him. On cue, he sports his classic, heartthrob smile and can almost <em>hear<em> his fellow mentors sneering from around him. When the cameras return to the stage, he glances side-to-side, but no one will look at him. He lowers his eyes, absently reaching into the pocket of his blazer. Yes, it's still there – the small bottle of white pills snuck to him by Calix in the procession to their seats.

"Sickening," Johanna's voice tickles his ear. "Though not as sickening as the 11 given to the girl on fire."

Finnick looks over his shoulder to meet her eyes with a slight nod. His stomach churns to think of the spectacular death the gamemakers are planning for Katniss Everdeen, the unexpected volunteer from 12. If it wasn't enough for her to simply volunteer, her stylist sent her and her partner to the tribute parade in flames and in the private session with the gamemakers, she was ranked 11. Finnick himself had a score of 9 in his day – how the starving young girl pulled off an 11 is beyond just about everyone. The Careers and their mentors from 1 and 2 are furious, not to mention his own tributes, and he can see what's happening: by glorifying her, the gamemakers have put a target on her back. By the time they enter the Arena, every tribute will be poised to hunt her down. Snow will prove to Panem what it means to volunteer in District 12. Johanna realizes it, too, and even she does not look forward to what's sure to be Katniss's ghastly, undignified death in the Arena.

Normally, Finnick tries not to doze off after his tributes are interviewed. Twenty-four tributes taking the stage for three minutes guarantee a long night. This evening, however, he's interested to hear what the Girl on Fire might have to say. How Haymitch, her mentor, has instructed her to back out of the spotlight.

But it's not the girl who surprises him. No, it's the boy who follows: her district partner, one with golden blond hair who relaxes in front of the cameras. It's not often a tribute is at ease during the interviews, not even the Careers, but the boy chats easily with Flickerman and cracks jokes for the crowd.

And when he admits that his love life is shot because the girl who has him smitten accompanied him to the Games, the audience gasps at the realization and Finnick hears Johanna's voice behind him, loud and clear: "You gotta be _kidding_ me, Haymitch!"

For the 74th Hunger Games has become a tragic romance, and as Capitol women pay for his services in secrets, ravage his body and leave him spent, they'll surely be rooting for love.

* * *

><p>Their male tribute is gone – massacred in the initial bloodbath – so Finnick doesn't mind sleeping off the sweats just a little longer in his room and popping another pill before joining Elsie in the Recreational Room. Their girl has joined with the Careers, just as she was born to do, and Finnick and Elsie sent her a meal the evening before, which he sorely regrets. The girl ate it along with the other Careers – and the boy from 12 who's joined their pack, rightly dubbed Lover Boy – while watching Katniss Everdeen starve up in a tree with a charred leg from a blast. Lover Boy convinced them to camp around the base of the tree until the girl came down of her own accord. They'd kill her then.<p>

Finnick isn't certain of Lover Boy's intentions, but he has a way with words that sways even the most bloodthirsty Career from 2. And so they camp patiently on the ground, waiting for the Girl on Fire to starve or face her death head-on. If Finnick were there, he'd climb up the tree and spear her himself. Even when in the Arena, he never had the stomach to draw out another's death.

He settles into a chair beside Elsie and takes a deep breath as the morphling courses through his veins. Through bleary eyes, he watches daylight filter into the Arena – the gamemakers have prolonged the dawn, meaning they must be expecting something to happen this morning that they want the nation to watch live. Today is likely the day that Fire Girl will perish – and right behind her, if the Careers have any sense, her Lover Boy.

In his calm, quiet state of mind, Finnick slouches further in his chair and takes a lazy panorama of the room. The other mentors survey the scene under the tree with anticipation, but none are quite as fixated as Haymitch. Though he has a drink in his hand even at this early hour, he stares intently at the television, free hand clutched in a fist and knuckles white against his cheek.

If Haymitch had ever had a surviving tribute, he'd know. He'd know it's best to just let them die. Of course, a victor can go a long way for a poorer district – even the rich enjoy being lavished in luxuries from the Capitol for a year, but in the impoverished District 12, the extra grain and oil provided in a victory year could save lives. Not that Haymitch, drowning in a bottle, cares for his district. Finnick can't imagine he has any loyalties whatsoever.

He envies the drunkard for a sheer second. Sensing he's being watched, Haymitch slowly turns his head in Finnick's direction and gives him a nod of acknowledgement. Despair is magnified in his eyes, otherwise dead from the drink.

With sudden curiosity, Finnick studies the mentor as he shifts his gaze back to the screen. There's no one he loves. No one he must protect or care for. Without a concern for even his own well-being, Haymitch can freely self-destruct with a guilt-free conscience.

But Finnick has known enough suffering to identify the torture in his hardened eyes. The loss. The sorrow. Even without love and loyalty, Haymitch's wrists are shackled, his ankles bound by chains to this life.

A girl, small but bold, racing after him into the ocean. Legs long and gangly. More of a stick insect than anything. Gentle hands guiding his fingers over the rope. Giggling. Sand between his toes. A head on his shoulder as the waves crash on the beach. Crinkles just outside her sea green eyes, worn with laughter. Fingers knotted through his. Dark, tangled hair falling over them like a veil. Whispers in his ear. Breath on his neck as he drifts to sleep.

He can't be sorry for Annie's life. Can't wish that she had died in there. He can't even regret that he grew to love her with a fierceness that burns deep within his chest and drives his every move. For death is just a blanket of white space; a descent into the earth, but living is holding her and feeling her heart beat in time with his.

There's an excited shriek from across the room. Jolted from his reverie, Finnick blinks and turns his attention to the screen. From beside a sawed branch, Katniss Everdeen stares down at her captors with her head cocked in curiosity. A jarring thud wakes the tributes as a nest hits the ground. And then, pandemonium. Swarms of bees – tracker jackers, Elsie tells him – ascend from the hive, livid from the disturbance. Screams rip from the throats of the tributes as they rise, swat, and break into a run. Through the forest and to the lake, as fast as they can before the poison from the stings sinks into their blood and stops their hearts.

But two can't escape the tracker jackers, and not for the first time, Finnick watches his own tribute perish. She sinks to her knees, losing the strength in her arms to swat the Capitol muttations. Her face contorts with pain, and then – Finnick cringes – fear. But it only lasts for a second. She collapses to the ground and convulses. Then, as confirmed by the booming of the cannon, she's dead. Another cannon follows shortly afterward for her female ally from District 1.

Katniss Everdeen, Girl on Fire, hops humbly to the ground, staggering from her own tracker jacker stings. She races to a nearby pool and extracts the stingers from her skin, her face green with sickness. Still, she has the common sense to return to the scene and steal the bow and arrows from District 1's dead tribute. There's a sickening crunch as she pries the weapon from the dead girl's cold, swollen fingers.

And then Lover Boy is there, screaming at her to run. She does. What remains of the Careers return, soaked and furious. Lover Boy doesn't have time to explain before he's fatally slashed by the knife of District 2's male and abandoned to die alone.

"She's dead," Elsie says to him, covering his hand with hers. He hears the emotion in her voice, but he does not feel it. "We can go home."

The morphling leaves Finnick compassionless. Barely able to process what he's just seen, he thinks, _yes, she's dead_. He snatches another glance at Haymitch, who's just as surprised as everyone else. Two Careers dead by the hands of a girl from 12. Finnick wonders if the gleam in his otherwise-dark eyes is a gleam of hope.

For Haymitch's sake, he hopes not.

* * *

><p>With both of his tributes dead and better off for it, Finnick takes the stairs to the fourth floor of the Training Center and begins to pack the few items of clothing he brought with him in a duffel bag. It may be District 4's worst performance in years – one tribute taken out in the Bloodbath, the other stung to death on the fifth day – but he can't help his high spirits. Soon, his eyes will sweep across the landscape of his district, settling on the long, dark hair and shy smile of the one he loves. For a boy once so fiercely competitive, he'd lose every game he ever had to play for this kind of consolation prize.<p>

He shouldn't have expected such lenience from President Snow.

Radman fetches him in the early evening. Tonight, he's to wine and dine with the recently widowed Carmela Knoff, whose husband, before his untimely death from a weak heart, was one of Snow's chief security officers and spent much of his time training peacekeepers.

"I haven't gotten out very much since Tarquin's death," Carmela says, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a handkerchief. Her Capitol accent is so thick that Finnick is almost suspicious that it's fake. "Mourning, you know. And now with the baby, it's difficult to get out at all."

Finnick nods, his eyes brooding as he regards her with peculiarity. He's certain that it's not just lipstick: her full lips are permanently stained red.

"Of course, my family's very insistent that I rest," she adds. "Tarquin's, too. They wouldn't like that I invited you for dinner… especially not Ryker, my brother. He's rather protective of me. But lately he's been worked to the bone with his business, and I've been so lonely…"

Smooth as silk, the morphling glides through his veins. He eases his hand onto her knee, gently shifting the hem of her dress to caress her plastic skin. Voice husky, he purrs into her ear, "I can keep you company."

"Yes," she breathes, accepting another glass of wine. They clink glasses and Finnick gulps down nearly half, squeezing his eyes shut for only a second to down the bitter taste. The alcohol seems to be more potent this evening, or perhaps he's just horrifyingly well-adjusted to the fine art of seduction. Whatever it may be, he has Carmela Knoff bare and writhing beneath him only an hour later and can barely recall getting her there. All he knows is that she wants him to take charge, to be tender but commanding, to make her feel pretty and desired and interesting once again.

And so, as they curl up together in post-coital cool-down, Finnick plants idle kisses along her shoulder and remarks, "It must be very hard, losing someone you love."

"Oh," she says offhandedly, drawing patterns on his back, "I didn't love him."

Finnick freezes for only a moment – then his tongue darts out again, tracing the lines on her collarbone. "You married him."

"Yes," she agrees. "He fancied me – I was twenty years younger and, in all his time away from home, he hadn't yet found a wife. That gruesome scar along his cheek from an altercation with another peacekeeper didn't help for his desirability, I suppose."

"But you were not fond of him."

Carmela tilts her head to the side to give him better access to her throat. "He was very rough with me," she says. "He expected me to bed him whenever he pleased. I wasn't allowed to talk to other men, even in those long months he was away. Perhaps it was his own self-consciousness, but I felt smothered."

Finnick grips her thigh, sliding easily into her again. "Then why marry him?" he asks, eyes heavy-lidded with intoxication, but what Carmela must perceive as lust.

She arches her back, adjusting to the new position, and replies calmly, "I didn't expect so many personal questions."

"But you did expect the company," he counters. "You've been lonely too long. Who can you confide in, if not a poor fisherman's son from the districts? What weight do I carry here in the Capitol?"

A few slow, tantalizing thrusts are all the convincing the widow needs. With his mind spinning from the wine and body weightless with morphling, Finnick struggles to pocket her secrets as she admits she married the man for prestige. Social status. She was born in District 1 to a heart surgeon and his wife, and after her mother's death, her father was sought out by the Capitol as an expert in his field. As a young girl, she was led into a world of glamour and politics, even on the playground. Carmela and her elder brother were ostracized as lowly district scum; not Capitol-bred or worthy to live in such a privileged world. It angered their father, whose position was precious but not powerful, and as Ryker grew older, his own fury began to bubble. The family was safe and secure, but in a place thriving on wealth, fashion, and power, it wasn't enough.

Marriage to the chief of security, no matter how old and ugly, was not something Ryker and her father would allow her to turn down. Elevation of the family name, they said. It will benefit us all, they said.

But Tarquin was cold and unkind, rarely allowing his wife to frequent parties and events, even in his absences to train peacekeepers in the districts. Without socializing with elites, it was almost as if the marriage served no purpose to the family name at all.

And that was why he had to die.

They suffocated him in the night, Carmela and Ryker, and in the morning, their father proclaimed him dead. "His heart simply failed him," he wrote in the autopsy report. As a man of science and medicine, he was trusted.

"But that's not the worst of it," Carmela whispers into Finnick's ear. "You see, being the widow of a high-society man isn't enough. It guarantees nothing to the family name. The only way to carry on the legacy is…"

"A baby," Finnick finishes for her.

"Yes," she says, her smile shrewd and wicked. "We thought I was pregnant before Tarquin's death. The signs were there and my father confirmed it. But only two days after he was put to rest, I bled."

Finnick pauses. No baby. None by Tarquin, anyway.

"Then how…" he trails off, deep in contemplation.

"You do what you must for family," Carmela says, her breath ghosting along his cheek. "My father had always made that very clear."

A slow realization sinks in, and he turns his head to meet her eyes, horrified by what he may find there.

"Your father?" he asks, eyes wide.

"Ryker," she answers.

His stomach flips. Her brother.

"'What luck,' they all say to me now," Carmela continues, "'what luck that your child resembles you and not him.' I suppose I'm glad I lost his baby – Tarquin never was especially good-looking. Nothing like you, Finnick Odair."

Treacherous woman. Disgusting, vile family. Her fingers begin to burn his skin, and with every new touch, he's certain he'll never be able to wash her off. The morphling thins under his skin and he feels heavier, soberer.

He staggers through the Training Center that evening, avoiding the Recreational Room, avoiding Johanna and her snarky comments, avoiding Haymitch staring into space at the bar. He can't recall taking either the elevator or the stairs, but somehow he's in his own room, hunched over the toilet bowl and heaving. Even when he's vomited every last organ in his stomach, he still gags, still feels like a foreign invader is hostage inside his gut. It may be the morphling. It may be the wine. But the raw lust for power – the incest – is what keeps him gagging until, with trembling hands, he finds another white pill in the pocket of his duffel.

Without it, he may never have slept again.

* * *

><p>The Games will end tonight.<p>

Snow has assured them all of that, and invites the mentors to a lavish Capitol party in the ballroom of his own mansion where they will gather amongst Capitol citizens to watch the conclusion unfold. This is no ordinary circumstance, but then again, it's no ordinary Games – the Capitol audience has been swept up by the star-crossed lovers from 12 and, fuelled by their excitement, the gamemakers have promised two victors this year, as long as they hail from the same district.

Finnick remembers Seneca Crane's cautious manner in answering his rebellious questions. He recalls even more clearly what he did for Annie. Tonight, as the lovers from 12 and the fierce, handsome brute from 2 are drawn together in a duel to the death, Finnick hopes for Crane's sake that the Head Gamemaker lets the pieces fall as they may. One glance at Snow's snakelike eyes and Finnick knows that two victors cannot be an option. It's a lenience he's less than likely to grant, even to his adoring Capitol citizens.

Crane must know that, for the beastly mutts that chase Katniss and Peeta across the field to the Cornucopia are certainly programmed to kill. And on top of the golden horn, the tribute from 2 is waiting for them.

"He'd make a fine victor, that Cato," says a cheerful voice from beside him. Finnick stays where he is and only turns his head to the side to see Plutarch Heavensbee. "Don't you think?"

"Mm," Finnick agrees faintly, using his tongue to shift the sugar cube he's been sucking on to the other side of his cheek. No matter the victor, he'll be going home tomorrow, to Annie. It's best to fight the morphling temptations now, no matter how excruciating, rather than frighten her later with the withdrawals.

"The ones who have been in training all their lives truly understand what it means to be a victor," Heavensbee continues. "Their duties won't surprise them, much like it surprises those who were never intended to win."

With a slight frown, Finnick says nothing.

"But of course, if Katniss Everdeen were to survive, that would be something, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, it would," Finnick agrees slowly. The volunteer from District 12. Her purity amuses him – especially in refusing to look at Peeta's naked form even when he was inches from death – but it also saddens him, for he knows that should she emerge from the Arena with a beating heart, Snow will rip that purity from her in the cruellest way possible. She's too vulnerable, with the sister she loves dearly and the boy she romanced in the Arena. Despite her hard exterior, it would be far too easy to hurt her.

"It seems that Panem is fixated on a love story rather than a grisly death – and that's a first," Heavensbee comments.

As the tributes duke it out on top of the Cornucopia while the mutts growl below, Finnick scoffs. Peeking at Plutarch Heavensbee with narrowed eyes, he asks, "Do you really believe that? That they're in love?"

Heavensbee smiles. "Does it matter? The nation believes them. The girl has started something. As long as she lives – and the boy lives with her – the message stands that the districts can fight back. Very dangerous," he muses, "especially for a ruler such as Coriolanus Snow."

Finnick's muscles are pulled taut. He's certain that he'll be cuffed and arrested any second. To say something so treasonous in the very house of President Snow is nothing short of reckless. With so few words, Heavensbee just dug a grave for them both.

But nothing happens. Heavensbee gives him a knowing smile. Perhaps the safest place for open discussion is directly under Snow's nose – it's the last place anyone would think to bug.

With a wary stare, Finnick wonders if Heavensbee is much more than a quirky, jolly gamemaker.

"This is the grand finale," he points out. "Shouldn't you be in the compound making sure everything is executed smoothly?"

"Oh, there are dozens of gamemakers," Heavensbee replies. "The role I intend to play is far more important than that."

There's excitement in the ballroom as the final three tributes come to a standstill in their combat. Cato has Peeta in a headlock and could easily twist his neck and throw him over the edge of the Cornucopia. However, Katniss has an arrow aimed at his forehead. If she lets it fly, he takes Peeta over the edge with him.

Either way, she's won.

"What do you say, Mr. Odair?" Heavensbee asks him softly as they both stare at the screens above. "Do you root for the Girl on Fire?"

Her fingers are shaking on the bow. Peeta looks upon her with insistent eyes, determined that she should let him go. Cato growls, but slow, painful realization dawns upon his face. He will die, just as it's always been intended.

And the girl who burns with the fires of change will live.

"Yes," Finnick says, his voice barely above a whisper. He keeps his eyes trained to the screen, declaring, "I root for her."

* * *

><p>Katniss and Peeta huddle together for warmth on the roof of the Cornucopia as Cato is slowly, savagely ripped apart by the mutts. Shooting an arrow into his hand was a brilliant move on Katniss' part – or horrendously stupid, for she doesn't yet understand the dangers of being clever. In Cato's split second of pain, Peeta managed to wriggle free from his grasp and send him tumbling off the Cornucopia into the fanged jaws of the mutts.<p>

And since then, they've been waiting, waiting, waiting.

When they can't wait anymore – Peeta's losing blood and badly wounded – Katniss leans over the edge of the Cornucopia and fires an arrow at the pleading Cato, ending it all. Not long after, the twenty-second cannon booms.

The Games are over, and Snow's guests begin to cheer.

But Seneca Crane is not a stupid man, though he must never have expected it to come to this. As the tributes embrace and slide down from the Cornucopia in the early morning light of the Arena, it is announced that only one will be crowned victor.

There's still one cannon left.

Though he has his arm wrapped around a Capitol woman, Finnick can't take his eyes from the screen. _What now, Girl on Fire?_ he thinks. This is her first lesson in victory.

Both tributes drop their weapons. What the gamemakers have expected to be a fight to the death has turned into a verbal sparring match of who must be forced to live.

"Listen," Peeta says, barely able to stand on his poorly-bandaged leg. Still, he has the strength to pull Katniss to her feet and place his firm hands on her shoulders. "We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me."

There's a collective sigh in the crowd, but Finnick is too transfixed to notice.

Katniss stares blankly as Peeta tells her he loves her. That his life has been worth it for having known her. That she's everything, and without her, he has nothing to go home to. Though the girl's face is empty, Peeta's words are so full of emotion that even the jaded Finnick halfway believes it's true. And even if the baker's son is too secure, too innocent, too untouched to know anything of love or loss, his words echo in Finnick's chest.

From the pouch on her belt, Katniss produces a handful of berries. Peeta protests at first, but she wills him to trust her. She pours a few into his hands and, trembling, they kiss one last time.

"No!" someone screams from across the room.

Finnick wonders what's happening until Peeta and Katniss hold out their hands to show the cameras: _nightlock_. Poisonous berries. The instant killer.

And they're both going to swallow them.

"One," they say together. "Two."

With bated breath, the crowd waits.

"Three."

The shrieking starts as soon as the nightlock touches their lips. But it's not for long, because before Finnick can even process what has happened, Claudius Templesmith's voice booms throughout the Arena, declaring Peeta and Katniss the victors.

_Victors_.

Finnick whoops for joy, pumping his fist into the air as the audience goes wild. The anthem of Panem begins to play, scarcely heard over the commotion. It seems the Capitol enjoys a romance even more than a slaughter.

And even amidst the chanting and the hooting and the celebrations, there's a rustling in his bones. Though he claps politely, Snow's eyes are murderous, and Finnick knows the president feels it, too.

Something's changed, just like Plutarch Heavensbee said, and the girl from 12 may have set the whole world ablaze.

* * *

><p>"A pleasure to see you, as always, Mr. Odair," Snow says to him, as he bids farewell to all his guests on their way out.<p>

Finnick nods, hoping the president will set his eyes on the next guest.

But he's not so lucky.

"A safe trip back to District 4 in the morning," Snow continues, a mysterious spark in his eye as he adds, "And may you enjoy every last minute with Miss Annie."

Finnick freezes. The words sound perfectly ominous from Snow's lips. _Every last minute._

"What is that supposed to mean?" he demands in a low voice.

The president merely smiles, chilling Finnick from head to toe. "Nothing, of course. I understand that you've found the accommodations in the Victor's Village not to your liking."

Grinding his teeth, Finnick answers, "She feels more at home by the sea."

"As did her mother," Snow says knowingly, and the victor can only ball his hands into fists to keep himself from lunging at the man. With a touch to the rose on his lapel, Snow clears his throat and says, "I'd be careful if I were you, Mr. Odair. People may begin to suspect you possess a spirit of rebellion. And unfortunately, my plans for those who rebel are not altogether pleasant."

_The old man's furious with the conclusion of the Games_, Finnick convinces himself, _that's all_. He stares coldly into Snow's eyes, which does nothing to intimidate the stony president.

Snow pats his shoulder and sends him on his way. "We'll see you soon, Mr. Odair," he says, "and until then, it is my advice that you keep your head down."

* * *

><p>The skies are clear and wide as Finnick steps off the hoverplane in the meadow behind the Victor's Village. It's early evening, and he takes a moment to breathe in the clean air before walking straight into Annie's arms. The familiar, salty scent of her skin instantly relaxes him in a way only comparable to morphling.<p>

He shuts his eyes and buries his head in her shoulder, so dreadfully guilty for the things he's done while he was away. But that's another world. Another Finnick. Annie's Finnick is who he yearns to be every day of his life.

Mags insists that both of them stay for dinner, and they discuss the Games because it's all anyone can talk about. Two victors. Two victors from 12. Two victors from 12 in love.

With a full moon and a sky full of stars, Finnick links hands with Annie and they walk the two miles to her house on the beach.

"It feels like home again," she remarks after a long silence, once they've stepped inside and locked the doors behind them. "Even with the sea for company, it was empty without you."

With a surge of emotion for the only one he loves, Finnick grabs her in his arms and holds her tight.

"Was it empty for you, too?" Annie asks him, crushed against his body.

He nods against her hair. "So empty."

Without another word, he sweeps her up, carries her across the floor to her bedroom, and lays her down. He makes love to her like it's the very first time – or maybe the very last. Either way, he intends to know every part of her, to remember what the act in earnest truly means. Annie responds with similar urgency, as if she, too, is learning his body for the first time.

Afterward, he presses a chaste kiss to her stomach and lets his head fall there, spent in every sense of the word, but content and satisfied for the first time in weeks.

Annie runs her fingers affectionately through his hair, and he can't help but close his eyes and doze off – everything feels so sweet, so perfect right here with her.

"Your birthday's next month," she says sleepily. "What do you want?"

He's barely given a second thought to his birthday – after winning the Games at fourteen, he's found that age has never meant a thing since then.

To humour her, he replies, "Fried eggs and bacon."

"And?"

"A day in the boat," he says, his lips grazing her stomach. "Fishing."

"And?"

He yawns. "King crab for dinner."

Her giggle rumbles in her stomach, and a drowsy smile crosses his lips.

"We can do that any old day," Annie points out. "But it's your birthday. It's special. What do you want?"

Finnick could think of a million things, but only one sits heavy at the forefront of his mind.

"I want to marry you," he says, his voice a soft breath.

Annie's fingers freeze in his hair, processing his words. Heart in his throat, he waits patiently for her response, staring blankly at the bed's tangled sheets. Finally, to make sure she's heard correctly, she asks, "What?"

He wets his lips, sighing as he shifts his comfortable position and crawls up the bed so that they share a pillow. "Not now," he says, pushing her hair behind her ear. "I know we can't. But something's going to change. I can feel it. The Capitol let those two kids from 12 win the Games, and it started something."

Annie smiles, and those shy curves of her lips reach even the iciest crannies of his heart. "Maybe they believe in love after all."

"I'm not that optimistic," he says gravely. "It might be the opposite. Either way, something's going to happen. And I'll be damned if we don't have our day. That is, if you'll have me."

Her sea green eyes hold his gaze with a burning desire. She gulps. "Ask me."

"Annie Cresta," he says with a short laugh. His smile fades when he realizes just how serious he is. "You have my heart. Whatever's left of me is yours, and I want it to belong to you forever."

Annie grabs a hold of his wrist, staring unflinchingly into his eyes, which are honest only for her.

"So, someday," Finnick continues, his voice low and husky as he strokes his thumb across her cheek, "when it's safe, when it can truly be just you and I, when we can live how we've always wanted to live, will you marry me?"

Annie breathes deeply, her chest rising and falling as she takes him in. "No."

He frowns.

With a short laugh, she pokes his scrunched nose with the tip of her finger. "Just kidding." While he stares in bewilderment, she captures his lips in a kiss.

"Does that mean yes?" he murmurs as they break apart.

Eyes closed, Annie gives him a dazed smile before craning her neck to kiss him again. "Mm hmm," she hums against his lips. "Just like it's always been."

* * *

><p><strong>There's a scene that I cut out of this chapter because, at the last minute, I decided it might fit better in the next chapter. But as I post this, I'm unsure again. This chapter feels complete as it is... I'm indecisive, I suppose. Anyway, this is just a warning that when I write and analyze the next chapter, I <em>may<em> just turn around and slip the scene back into this chapter. But for now, consider it complete.**

**Thank you guys SO MUCH for sticking by this story and having faith in where it's going :) I'm overwhelmed by the response as it seems to get bigger and bigger each chapter. So thanks again, truly – your support makes even the most difficult scenes easier to write. Have a fantastic week and I'll catch you all next Sunday!**


	16. tonight i know it all has to begin again

**Chapter 16:** _75__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

Finnick clears the dishes one evening after supper, enjoying the menial tasks of washing and drying as he makes idle chatter with Annie, who sits on a stool at the counter while replacing a popped button on one of his shirts. In these comfortable moments, it's all Finnick can do not to imagine that this is his forever: he and Annie in domestic marital bliss, never to be disturbed by the prying eyes and clawing fingers of the Capitol. Sometimes – and he curses himself whenever he catches his mind wandering like this – he pictures a swell in Annie's belly: their child on the way with wide, innocent eyes the colour of sea foam.

"We could start a vegetable garden again," he suggests. "Out front, or maybe across the path – away from the tide."

"And we could have a chicken coop," Annie adds. "Don't you get tired of fish all the time?"

Finnick chuckles. "What do you know about looking after chickens?"

"We could learn," she says with a grin. "I would feed them every morning and collect the eggs. And you'd be in charge of slaughter and plucking."

"Oh, thank you," he says, his voice light with amusement. "Chicken slaughter is yet another thing I want on my conscience."

Her smile fades. Finnick regrets saying anything at all.

"We could do that, if you want to," he continues softly.

From the faraway gaze in her eyes, he knows he's lost her.

"Annie?" he asks, putting the plate and damp towel in his hands to rest on the countertop.

These stilted conversations are not uncommon. Finnick understands that sometimes it gets to be too much for her and she simply has to drop off. But this time, there's a throbbing guilt in his chest from his insensitivity.

He rounds the corner of the counter and comes up behind her, placing one hand on the tabletop and the other on the back of her stool.

Gently, he says into her ear, "Annie, come back." His fingers release the edge of the stool and slide up to squeeze her shoulder. "Annie, I'm sorry. It's Finnick. Will you come back to me?"

He rubs her shoulder and watches her eyes slip back into focus. Realizing that he's looming over her, she spins in the stool to face him.

He presents her with a broad smile. "Hi," he says, leaning against the counter.

But Annie has other things on her mind. That dip into oblivion left her with a burning question.

"Finn," she says, his mended shirt gripped tightly in her fist, "what if it was you and me? You and me, instead of those kids from District 12? What if we had to go into the Arena together?"

More than ever, he regrets his comment about the chickens. This is the last thing he wants to think about. Ever.

"Annie…" he trails off. She looks desperately into his eyes. He stammers, "I… it wouldn't be. Never will. You and I, we're never going in there again."

"But what if it happened?" she asks, her voice pleading for answers. "We could have been reaped in the same year."

"But we weren't," he argues, frowning. "We don't have to think about that."

Annie slouches in the chair, lowering her gaze to his chest. With that far-off look in her eyes, she says faintly, "Only one comes out. I'd want it to be you."

Muscles tensing, he grabs both of her shoulders in frustration and bends down to lock eyes with her. "You wanna know?" he asks, waiting for her to nod. He holds her stare with such intensity he's afraid she may start to cry. "If it was you and me, Annie, I'd take your hand and never let go. We'd run from the Bloodbath and never look back. We'd keep running until we found the nightlock, just like Katniss and Peeta. And then I'd take you in my arms. Kiss you one last time. And I'd eat the berries."

Shaken to life, Annie nods fervently. Without hesitation, she agrees, "I'd eat them, too."

He sighs, releasing his grip from her shoulders. "Okay. But we don't need to think about that."

Innocence drips from her voice as she remarks, "Katniss and Peeta are a little like us."

He shrugs, unable to concur but unable to break it to her uncorrupted naivety: the Girl on Fire may be smart, swift, and determined, but if there's one thing she's not, it's in love. Katniss and Peeta played lovers to win the Games.

But he and Annie, they won the Games because they were in love.

* * *

><p>The worst part about going downtown used to be facing the parents of the children he couldn't bring home from the Games. Some of them look so much like their children – or vice versa – that it's like running into a ghost. They never speak to him. Usually they cast down their gaze, avoiding him like he's a leper.<p>

And he is. Their distrust and accusations scream at him, even across a crowded marketplace. He didn't try hard enough. If he'd spent less time gathering Snow's secrets and more time charming the Capitol for sponsors, their children may have made it home.

It used to be what he dreaded in venturing to the core of the district. These days, what he fears even more is laying eyes on the deteriorating state of business, the girls in short dresses who prowl the streets for a man who will give them a loaf of bread or a few coins if they'll lie with him, the increased numbers of peacekeepers patrolling the wharves and prohibiting the fishermen from pocketing even a small percentage of their catch for the day. _Not on our time_, they say. _Not on Capitol time_.

Finnick feels a shift in the mood of the district's citizens. Though they're accustomed to strict control, the increasingly watchful eye of the Capitol bears down on them all. Mothers no longer let their children run free. Fathers keep their daughters under lock and key. And everything seems a secret – for even a close friend could tip off a peacekeeper in exchange for a meal or a trivial pardon from the law.

He expects to meet the infamous Katniss Everdeen during her stop in District 4 on the Victory Tour, but they won't allow him near her. He isn't certain why at first, for until now, he's always been asked to attend the district's festivities for the victor. But on the day of her arrival with Peeta, as they stand out on the steps of the Mayor's Building, hands linked and held high as if to say, '_Two made it out,_' Finnick senses dissatisfaction amongst the crowd. And it isn't directed at the victors – it's directed at the Capitol. For these two did not step down; they fought back.

There's a strong storm of dissent in the crowds that gather to see the victors. And just as Katniss wears her token mockingjay pin on her chest as a symbol, she becomes a symbol to the people. Just like the mockingjays that were never intended to exist, she is the girl who was never intended to live. She is a symbol of defiance to the Capitol.

And that symbol is spreading like wildfire.

* * *

><p>The more the district riles up, the more desperately Finnick wishes it would simmer down. It's like being in the Arena all over again: he's constantly alert, even in his sleep, knowing that at any moment, his life and Annie's could be threatened by a riotous mob or the blowback from the Capitol.<p>

Secrets are his specialty, so he hides his fears from Annie. After all these years of wishing he could fight back, he finds himself frozen with terror._ Coward_, he curses himself. But he can't get involved in an uprising, not when Annie teeters so precariously on the edge of an unimaginable abyss.

They hike even further into the outskirts of the district one morning, to a cove in the bay where the water is clear and still. Finnick holds the boat while Annie climbs aboard, then pushes it from the sand into the water and hops in behind her. He rows them into the bay, though not far, and they cast lines and wait for a catch in silence.

Today's not a good day for Annie. Her stare is blank and her mind is somewhere far beyond the present. Finnick steals glances at her while he bends and shapes the awl, his lips set in a thin line. He remembers a time when she never left him without company, even as he rolled his eyes at her and insisted he'd rather be alone. And he meant it, too. Thought loneliness was what he wanted. But somehow, little Annie knew he was lying even before he could admit it to himself. She never left him.

With a heavy sigh, he reels in the line and casts it again. He can't bear the thought of leaving her alone, either, not even when the Annie he knows doesn't exist within her body.

They've only been out in the bay for a couple of hours when Finnick hears a faint sound. He passes it off as a sloshing wave at first, or a gust of wind, but the sound grows louder until it can't be ignored. From their position in the water, they can see the downtown wharf miles and miles away. Finnick wonders if the sound originates there, because the more it grows, the more it sounds like human voices.

And then there's a blast. It's so distant that it might not even be real, but when four more follow in succession, Finnick knows he's just heard the firing of a rifle.

Alert and on edge, Finnick reels in his line and asks Annie for hers. When she doesn't respond, he leans across the boat and gently pries the rod from her hands. He's just managed to set it aside and pick up the oars when the thrum of an engine sounds overhead. Finnick squints as he looks into the bright sky – a hovercraft. No, two. Followed by three more.

His eyes widen as fear stirs in his stomach, and he begins to row furiously to shore. Annie, jolted by the boat's movement, returns to life for a brief moment to assess her surroundings.

"Why are we going back?" she asks.

There's no time to answer. Before a word escapes his lips, the first hovercraft has reached the wharf and drops what seems to be a package from its underbelly.

A bomb.

Even from miles away, Finnick hears the blast, and Annie's eyes are suddenly feral.

"What was that?" she asks, and this time, she's answered with two blasts.

His shoulders are already aching with exertion, but Finnick manages to get them back to the cove and, though his arms feel like jelly, he herds Annie out of the boat and drags it onto the sand before racing after her to duck for cover.

Annie covers her ears with her hands, her eyes squeezed shut as she murmurs to herself. As they cower in the shelter of the cove, he wraps his arms around her and cradles her head to his chest, keeping her safe and protected and offering what little comfort he can. With each blast that follows, Finnick feels that it's a stab to his own heart. The rebellion has begun. District 4 will fight, or it will perish.

They remain huddled in the cove for the longest time. The blasts begin to fade into the distance, and Finnick believes the hoverplanes are moving eastward. Annie stares blankly at the water while Finnick fixes his gaze on the sand, wondering what was lost today. What was gained. He should be there, and he knows it.

The late afternoon sun begins to dip, and he judges it's safe to emerge. He takes Annie's hand and they climb out of the cove, standing tall as they see the smoke rising from the wharf. And there on the rocks, they watch their district burn.

* * *

><p>Finnick scowls at every mention of mandatory programming from the Capitol, loathing not only their senseless displays of total control, but also the damage it causes Annie. Snow's cool, calculated voice frightens her, sending her into fits of madness that sometimes leave her mind blank for days. It's not enough to keep her out of the Capitol each year – it's the constant revisits to the cold, hard authority and Hunger Games through the screen that render her raw, swelling wounds irreparable.<p>

But this evening, as he sinks onto the sofa and throws an arm around Annie for consolation, he's pleasantly surprised by the mandatory programming the Capitol has arranged.

Why, it's only a stupid elimination ceremony for the dress Katniss Everdeen will wear for her wedding to Peeta Mellark. While the two victors from 12 have inspired uprisings amongst the districts, they have a similarly passionate, but opposite effect on the Capitol. Its shallow citizens are transfixed by the star-crossed couple, glued to their personal lives like it's all that could ever possibly matter. Finnick can only roll his eyes as the shots of Katniss in seductive poses and extravagant gowns grace the screen. Anyone who studied her in the Games can see she's not one for publicity and glamour. Her riveting grey eyes told of hardship, sorrow, and the ultimate will to survive – it's laughable that the Capitol truly believes that she'll marry the baker's son for love. Finnick knows Snow far too well for that. If she marries the boy, it's to keep her sister alive. He wonders briefly what Snow holds against Peeta. He must have a family, too. Perhaps even a different lover he needs to keep safe. Though it's hard to imagine that Peeta has eyes for anyone else, even to the ever-cynical Finnick Odair. Next to Katniss, he shines with love and adoration. He may be the most brilliant actor Panem has ever seen – that, or the biggest fool.

Annie, for one, chooses to enjoy the compulsory viewing. She snuggles into Finnick's side, curling her legs underneath her as she makes her own observations on Katniss' bridal choices.

"Not that one," she mutters. "Pretty," she says of another. And of another, "I'd like it if the sleeves weren't puffed. I want a dress that doesn't look like it was made in the Capitol."

Finnick can only chuckle. "You want one?"

Though she's resting on his chest, it's like she's forgotten he sits beside her. "Yes," she says, finding it odd that he would ask. "For our wedding."

As the Capitol audience hoots and haws in voting on gowns, Finnick studies the brown-haired beauty beside him. "Do you think about it?" he murmurs.

She smiles, unabashed. "Yes."

"What do you think about?" he asks in amusement.

Sighing, she rests her head on his shoulder and lifts her chin to meet his eyes. "I think about floral arrangements. Centerpieces. The location. The music they'll play as I'm walking down the aisle. Our guests. My dress, of course."

She brings a smile to his face, and he can't help that it broadens at her every word. "Is that all, now?" he jibes.

Her grin matches his, and she replies, "No, that's not it." She raises her head from his shoulder and her smile fades, her teeth grazing her lower lip. "Mostly I think about how it will feel, wearing your ring on my finger and knowing that we belong to each other."

The strongest urge to kiss her rises in him then, Capitol programming and all. Eyes filled with longing, he runs his fingers up and down her upper arm and tries to find the right thing to say – but he can't. All he can think is that Katniss and Peeta don't realize how lucky they are, being promised only to one another instead of the thousands of clasping fingers and probing eyes in the Capitol.

They don't hang in silence too long, for the mood on the television changes. Caesar Flickerman, who's conducting the vapid program, declares that the honourable – Finnick resists a sardonic laugh –President Snow will be making an appearance shortly for an announcement about the third Quarter Quell.

Finnick's insides clench, and he curses himself for believing that the harmless shots of Katniss were the focus of the evening. With the seventy-fifth annual Hunger Games approaching, he should have expected that the twist for the Quarter Quell would be revealed.

Annie stiffens as Snow takes the stage, and Finnick squeezes her to remind her she's not alone. But he, himself, feels a nasty chill scale down his spine as it's made clear that the president is enjoying this moment very, very much. Something evil must be inside the box containing the Quarter Quell decrees.

Snow delivers his signature speech on the Dark Days when the districts rose up to rebel against the Capitol. He reminds the Capitol audience of the districts' betrayal and that they must be given a fresh reminder of their follies during each Quarter Quell. To never forget. Their punishment will never end.

After reviewing the previous Quarter Quells, Snow takes an envelope from the box onstage containing the information for this year's Games. As he opens the envelope and his eyes scan what's written, his lips curl into the most contemptuous smile. A wave of terror washes over Finnick, and he wonders when the palms of his hands became so clammy.

"On the seventy-fifth anniversary," Snow begins to read, "as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

The audience is silent. Finnick is silent. Outside, he's certain the whole world has gone silent.

It can't be true.

"What does that mean?" Annie asks in a small voice, sitting forward on the sofa.

Finnick stares, eyes rugged and hard, at the screen as the audience begins to react with shrieks of shock. Not a muscle in his body has moved since Snow's word – he's rigid as the grim realization of the announcement sinks in.

_Existing pool of victors._

"Finn?" she asks again, placing a hand on his forearm. His veins protrude with tension, and the unyielding rigidity of his body sounds an alarm in Annie. "Finnick, what is it?"

"It means," he says, his voice shaking even as he struggles to keep it even, "that in every district, the only ones reaped will be the ones who've already won the Games."

Annie takes a moment to process this, her grip intensifying on his forearm. "But Finn," she whispers, "that's us."

Finally able to tear his eyes from the hysteria of the Capitol, he meets her gaze and nods. He grits his teeth to keep his hands from shaking as he fights to maintain the fury that boils his blood. It can't be coincidence. It just can't.

Annie's eyes travel around the room, and though Finnick is consumed in his own rage and grief, head hung over his knees, he listens to her breathing grow shallower. Short breaths, as if she's been running for an extended period of time.

"You said we wouldn't have to go back in."

At the sound of her voice, small and nervous, Finnick raises his head. The only pathetic response he has is: "I didn't know."

It certainly wasn't the right thing to say to Annie. He'd curse himself for knowing better, but somehow he's lost the mental effort to do so.

This is how Snow intended for him to feel – for all of them to feel. Utter, soul-crushing defeat.

"But you said," Annie says, her voice more insistent now. "You said we'd never have to think of the berries."

"Annie, I didn't know," he repeats, clutching a fistful of his hair in distress. "How could I have known it would come to this?"

"You said!" she cries, covering her mouth with her hand to quell a sob. She shifts away from Finnick on the sofa, her eyes filling with tears before she jumps to her feet and begins to pace. "Back to the Arena. They'll put us back in. I can't do it."

"You're not the only woman," Finnick points out, but his insides mash together and he begins to panic at the thought. "There's Mags, and Elsie, and—"

Annie ignores him, her lips quivering with fear. "I can't go back in there," she mutters to herself. "I can't go back. They can't take me back there."

Finnick stands and promptly turns off the television, leaving them in silence apart from Annie's laboured breathing. He walks across the room and plants steadying hands on her shoulders, though it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to scream. He has to be strong. Staring into her teary eyes, wild with terror, he begs himself for strength.

"You're not going back in," he says, bending down so their eyes are on level. Annie shakes her head furiously, her eyes darting around the room. He gives her shoulders a light rustling, calling her to attention. "Annie," he says, this time with resolve, "you are not going back in there."

"They'll make me," she sobs, crumpling into her hands. "They're going to take me again. They're gonna put me back in there. I can't do it. I know I can't."

"No. Listen!" Finnick exclaims, frightening her with his urgency. "There's no way I'm ever letting them take you. Do you understand?" At his unusual coarseness, her shoulders fill with tension and her eyes fixate on the wall, but he shakes her again to life. "Dammit, Annie, stay with me. You're not going back in."

It takes a moment, but finally, her eyes leave the wall and connect with his, her face instantly crumbling. "They'll pick me."

"It doesn't matter," he insists, and with firm hands still on her shoulders, he guides her to the sofa and sits her down. Her chest is heaving rapidly now, and he knows he only has a few precious moments before her mind descends into chaos. He kneels on the hardwood floor in front of her and says, his voice as even as it can get, "You know why? Because nobody's gonna let you go back in. Not just me. But none of the other women, either. They were all volunteers, Annie, did you know that? They _wanted_ to be in the Games. They wanted to take someone's place."

"They won't this time."

"Yes, they will," he assures her, though a violent flip in his stomach warns him he might vomit with such terrifying uncertainty. For himself more than for her, he repeats, "Yes, they will."

Her shallow breathing continues. Near hyperventilation, she asks, "And who—" gasp, "—will take—" gasp, "—yours?"

With a shake of his head, he answers, "Don't worry about me."

"No," she says desperately, grasping his arm. "They can't take you, either. What would I do if—"

"Shh," he interrupts her, pulling her trembling body towards him and wrapping his arms around her. Into her hair, he murmurs, "Don't, Annie. Don't think so much."

She weeps into his shoulder, gripping a fistful of the shirt on his chest as she sobs, "But I need you."

"You have me," he insists, stroking her hair as calmly as he can. "It'll be all right."

And he hates himself for saying so, for he knows it's the boldest lie he's ever told. He thought he had more time. While he never doubted the danger he was in, he thought Snow would use him to his full potential in the Capitol, and he could bide his time, gathering more secrets, his arsenal of weapons to kill the man he hates with the fire of a thousand suns. But Snow has outsmarted him once more, for he knows his life has been reduced to nothing but a ticking time bomb.

_My plans for those who rebel are not altogether pleasant._ Snow admitted it outright, and Finnick hates himself for being too blind to have figured it out sooner.

He will be reaped. It is vengeance for his camaraderie with the outspoken Johanna, for building Annie a house on the sea, for defying the peacekeepers, for openly supporting last year's victors from 12. The price for his arrogance and insubordination is death. But first, slow, agonizing torture.

If Snow hates him enough – and Finnick is certain he does – Annie's name will be pulled from the glass bowl right alongside his, and her nightmare will come true.

He stops himself from fisting Annie's hair in anger and instead whispers gently in her ear as she sinks to the floor with him. All the while, his mind is whirling.

He can't let her go back in the Arena. He promised her. And any death would be preferable to death at the hands of the Capitol. He owes her so much more than that.

It may come down to those damn berries after all, but not until he's exhausted every last option. If not for himself, then for Annie.

Though Annie's lost for the night, her breathing slows after a long while, and Finnick takes her to bed and climbs in beside her, wrapping them in a cocoon of blankets and shelter. Even with his arms holding her tight, Annie has the most violent nightmare she's had in years. She wakes screaming, eyes nearly rabid as they fly open in the dark. Not even his words can soothe her this time, and he ends up holding her down against her will for her own safety, apologizing over and over until the sobbing stops.

Come morning, he'll visit the female victors of District 4.

* * *

><p>He only has to visit <em>one<em> victor, and she is a feeble elderly woman with garbled speech and a cane to move from room to room.

"My mind was made the second it was announced," he understands Mags to say. "If her name is called, I'll take her place."

"No," Finnick says, and his heart goes out to the old woman, his guiding light. "Mags, I can't ask you to—"

"You didn't," she points out.

"Maybe Elsie or Haya will—"

"No," she interrupts again, dismissing his idea. "They have children. Families. It's no secret I don't have much time left anyhow."

"Don't say that," he says with a frown.

The woman smiles, reaching across the table for his hand. Her skin is spotted from years under the harsh rays of the sun, wrinkled and loose on her bones, and her fingers tremble slightly in his palm. "They're right to call you golden, you know," she says softly.

He stares at the table, his organs spun and wrung out in all directions. All that's left in his hollow chest is implacable emptiness.

"I just can't let them take her again," he mutters. "I wanted to do so much more, but if that's the last thing I ever do, then so be it."

"You'll be a favourite," Mags points out. "Would it be so impossible, to win again?"

"I don't know," he sighs, refusing to think about his own fate until Annie's is safely determined. It will be worse than any other year, that's for sure – even after mentoring for only a few years, Finnick can't bear the thought of entering the Arena with familiar faces. There are some victors who will be entering for sure – not all districts have a pool as large as 4. Chaff, the handless victor from 11. Wiress, the batty woman from 3. He can barely allow Johanna's name to cross his mind without cringing. And Katniss Everdeen, of course. The Girl on Fire. She'll go up in flames with the rest of them, and it kills him to picture Snow's delight.

"It will be awful for you, to be in there with so many friends," Finnick says, his voice gentle and distant.

"Yes, I'm quite fond of so many," she replies. He marvels at her bravado in such a dismal situation. With a twinkle in her eye, she counters, "But you and I, we're family. You come first."

Frowning to keep from breaking down, Finnick asks, "And what about you?"

"It's my time."

He shakes his head. It's no one's time in a manmade Arena designed to terrify, maim and slaughter. And Mags is so helpless… it's on the tip of his tongue to declare that she can't volunteer; he'll let Annie go.

But he can't. It will never come to that, and he knows it as sure as he knows the woman in front of him is family indeed.

With a pat to his hand, Mags says, "Let's not think about it. Instead, I'll have you fix the leak in the sink faucet while you're here."

Dry laughter rises in his throat. "How can you care about that now?"

She delivers him a scolding glare. "I fight my own battle against Snow, sure as you do. And this – cool indifference – is how I fight back."

The victor was defeated long ago, he realizes, and as she hobbles across the floor to the kitchen counter, he wonders if perhaps it might not be so terrible to die. If defeat is all that awaits him in life, then he can only hope Annie's idea of an afterlife exists – it might be nice, he thinks, to laugh at Snow from beyond the grave.

* * *

><p>The early hours of the morning are when he does his best brooding, and with the Quarter Quell looming, he finds he's awake each day even ahead of the sunrise. On a clear, warm day he sits himself in the sand and watches the waves roll in, soaking in the landscape of District 4. It won't be long before he never lays eyes on it again. Once, he was a victor, boyish, proud and indomitable. But after all he's seen and done – and especially after the 74th Annual Hunger Games, where there's rumour that the soft-hearted Seneca Crane, Head Gamemaker, was disposed of – he knows he will not be afforded a second chance. If another victor doesn't kill him, the elements will. The gamemakers will see to it.<p>

For now, he takes great pains to study the way the sun rises over the water. The way it begins as a pink flare and then bursts into a brilliant array of oranges stretching across the horizon. And he watches its reflection grow and spread through the sea until it beats down on him, strong and sure.

Today, as the sun's rays reach the land and begin to crawl their way up the beach, there is a flickering in the sand only a few yards away. It shimmers in the sunlight, and Finnick knows on instinct that it's no common seashell.

He pushes himself up and approaches with wary curiosity, for as he gets closer, he can see it's a fleck of gold.

Odd, for Annie's section of the beach is mostly secluded, and gold certainly does not wash up from the sea.

He squats in front of the gold, realizing that whatever it is, it's nearly buried in the dry sand. He looks from left to right, but there's no one. No one to claim it.

He musses the sand with his hands to uncover a gold bangle. He's frowning now, knowing he would have seen the golden twinkling in the sand if it were there yesterday. Who could have been on the beach?

Attached to the bangle is a note. Just a simple scrap of parchment tied loosely to the ring.

_For the boy with the golden smile,_ it says.

His head snaps up, certain someone is watching him. The boy with the golden smile – that's what they call him, the ones in the Capitol. Who left it here for him to find?

Flipping the note, he reads the scrawl on the back: _There is a way. Wear it if you can be it._

_There is a way_? A way to what? Doubt crawls through his bones until he reads the front of the scrap again – _for the boy with the golden smile_ – and he's absolutely certain that someone meant him to find this. But who? Snow? If Snow had something to give him, he'd do so personally, or through one of his messengers. The clandestine nature of this delivery causes Finnick to suspect that Snow knows nothing about it at all.

He examines the gold bracelet again. In the light, it glimmers, and Finnick realizes it's that the thin bangle is decorated in flames. They glow, almost orange in the sun, and when he moves the bracelet back and forth, it's like the fire is spreading.

Held up at eye level, he realizes the inside is inscribed, too. He has to shield the bracelet from the sun to make sense of the markings, but it only takes a minute to realize that the tiny, miniscule bird engraved in two places on the insides of the bangle is a mockingjay, half of a Capitol creation that survived despite all odds. Katniss Everdeen's token. The Girl on Fire.

Stuffing the bangle in his pocket, Finnick again surveys the surroundings for any signs of watchful eyes. There's nothing; no one.

_Wear it if you can be it. _

The mockingjay. The flames.

Someone knows of his quiet vendetta against the Capitol, and that someone wants him to set the world on fire.

* * *

><p>The week before the Reaping, Finnick leaves Annie tending to her vegetable garden and makes a trip to what used to be the fish market. Now, the downtown core is piles of rubble, charred buildings, and broken windows. The district put up a good fight, but Finnick has a feeling the Capitol will strike back. He's surprised they haven't crushed his people already.<p>

Whatever will happen, Finnick hopes it happens soon, for the dirt-stained faces of the war-torn citizens tell a tragic story. The district has been effectively shut off from the Capitol, meaning it receives no supplies or coin in exchange for its fish. Without trade, there will be no fabrics from 8 for clothing, no vehicles made in 6 for transportation, no grain from 11.

And Finnick knows well enough that Snow won't simply release one of his districts. He will push them back in line, or they will be obliterated, just like District 13 so many years ago.

Whatever will come, Finnick doubts he'll be around to see it.

And that's why he makes the journey through town. His trip has a purpose, and that purpose lives in a modest cabin nestled in the peninsula. Finnick is relieved to find the home, along with so many others, untouched by rebel activity and Capitol bombers.

A woman answers the door, one with wavy orange locks and a baby on her shoulder.

"Hello," Finnick says, unable to call forward his charm for the first time he can remember. The woman's eyes are wide with shock. He adds, "You must be Kessie. I'm Finnick."

Patting the baby's back, she nods and replies, "I know."

Of course she does. Everyone knows Finnick Odair. But even if they didn't, he has a suspicion that Kessie would have recognized him anyway – the striking similarities between him and his elder brother are impossible to ignore.

A little girl with a mop of curly red hair peeks around her mother's skirts, thumb in her mouth. Fletcher was right – she has his eyes. Dixie's eyes. Finnick gives the toddler a half-smile as a rush of emotion swells in his chest.

"I'm sorry to bother you," he says to Kessie. "I never meant to come here. But I had no one else to go to."

Kessie Odair holds the baby with one hand and places her other hand around the shoulders of her curious daughter. Her eyes are not unkind. "What do you need?"

"I need to speak to my brother."

Kessie nods again. "Bellamy," she says to the girl, "run out back and tell your father he has a visitor."

The child obeys her mother and skirts away, looking over her shoulder ever few steps as if to make sure the stranger is still there.

Kessie opens the door fully and invites Finnick to enter. As soon as he steps over the threshold, he can see that the family certainly lives in a humble abode, cramped and full. It's clean but untidy, with articles of clothing, toys and books spilling over shelves, onto furniture and sprawled across the floors in every room. A warm sensation settles in Finnick's stomach – with a twinge of sadness, he remarks that the house is so similar in size and character to the one in which he and Fletcher grew up.

"I'm sorry for the mess," she apologizes, a flush creeping onto her cheeks. "If I'd known you were coming, I would have cleaned up a little and maybe made a pot of tea – would you like tea?"

"No, thank you." There's a pregnant pause before Finnick adds, "And don't be sorry. I think this looks just like a home."

She gives a timid smile as the back door opens. Fletcher steps around the corner into the hallway, carrying Bellamy in one arm. His smile fades when he sees his brother, but he continues to approach, setting the girl lightly on her feet next to Kessie. She continues to regard Finnick with wide, curious eyes.

"Finn," he says calmly, nodding his head in acknowledgement. "Wasn't expecting you."

"I know," Finnick replies, hanging his head in shame for a brief moment. "I didn't mean to bother you, but I had no other choice." His apologies seem stuffy and formal, even to the charming victor himself. "Do you have a minute?"

Fletcher nods again and, realizing Finnick means to have a conversation in private, he informs his wife that they'll be out back. As Finnick follows his brother across the wooden floors of the house, he hears the girl say in hushed tones to her mother, "He looks like daddy."

_Daddy_. There's a lump in his throat thicker than a stone, and Finnick feels the air whipped from his lungs, a hollow in his chest. Something that could have been there, but never will be.

"Congratulations," Finnick says earnestly once they've shut the doors and stepped outside. The houses in this village are arranged in neat little rows, where one's backyard faces another's. It's not a lot of space, but it's enough to live. "When was she born?"

"Five months ago," Fletcher answers, and Finnick can see he's been hard at work cutting rocks. Fletcher turns to face him, adding, "We named her Ivy."

Finnick gulps, a crease in his brow. "I wish you hadn't told me that."

Keeping his calm demeanour, Fletcher counters, "Then why did you come?"

For two brothers who shared a bedroom before the younger won the Games, Finnick finds it remarkably difficult to summon words for Fletcher. Feeling harsh and stony, he answers, "I have to ask a favour of you."

There's a sarcastic flavour to Fletcher's eyes as he deadpans, "Helping you build a house wasn't quite enough?" When Finnick says nothing, Fletcher says, "Go on."

With a deep breath, Finnick announces, "I'm going back into the Arena."

"You won't know that until the Reaping."

"I do know it," he insists. "Snow practically told me himself last year."

Folding his arms across his chest, Fletcher asks, "How could he have known? He only read the envelope—"

"He knew," Finnick interrupts. "I wouldn't be surprised if he wrote it himself. And he's going to make sure it's me."

Fletcher's grey eyes darken. "You came out once before. You'll do it again."

"I'm also fairly certain he'll rig Annie to go in with me," Finnick offers.

He allows Fletcher a minute or two to mull this over. Finally, his brother sighs, "That's not good."

"Mags will volunteer for Annie," Finnick says, beginning to recite the plan. "I'd rather it be one of the other female victors, but she's more stubborn than a mule. If Mags goes in the Arena with me, that means there's no one here for Annie." He takes a shaky breath, treading on shaky feet now. "That's where the favour comes in. I know I've done nothing to deserve it. All I've ever done is hurt you, take things away from you. But I'm asking," he says with a gulp, "because we were brothers once, and because you're all I have left."

Fletcher ponders this. He scratches the scruff on his chin and sits down on one of the rocks. Squinting in the sunlight, he looks up at Finnick. "You're asking me to look after her?"

"She doesn't need much," Finnick says hastily. "She lives comfortably over there; she doesn't want for anything. I just… I can't leave her alone. I can't bear the thought that she'll think she's been abandoned. I need to know someone is checking in on her. Making sure she's safe. Because sometimes she loses herself, and if I'm not there to call her back, she could go days…"

He trails off, unable to continue. His own grief nearly chokes him. It's difficult enough to think of Annie waking up alone after one of her nightmares, but the idea of her living in isolation for the rest of her life… He's paid in body and blood for his own indiscretions. He can't have her continue to suffer for them after he's long gone.

Pushing himself off the rock, Fletcher stands tall, only an inch or so more than Finnick in height. Finnick stares beseechingly, his hopes resting on the goodness of his brother's wasted heart.

"She's your family. And you're mine. She won't be alone," Fletcher confirms. Gesturing to the house that contains his wife and children, he says, "We'll see to that."

Finnick nods gratefully. "Thank you."

"But it's only temporary," he's quick to add. "Until you return."

Gazing upon his brother, Finnick sees their mother and father so clearly. The ones who gave their lives for him. It was only due to Fletcher's disdain and resentment that his brother managed to escape the clutches of the Capitol. And now, Finnick must follow in the footsteps of their parents. Succumb, or watch everyone else perish.

"I can't promise that," Finnick says, his voice cracking, "and I have another favour to ask."

"One of these days, I'm going to ask for a cash settlement," Fletcher jokes, but he is sombre again at Finnick's serious expression.

"When they bring my body home, don't let them bury it."

Fletcher begins to protest, but Finnick interrupts.

"Don't let them put me in the ground," he says in an overpowering voice. "I don't want that. They trapped me in life; I won't have them trap me in death."

"So what would you have?" Fletcher asks, his tone contesting.

"I would have my ashes be thrown to sea. Far out. As far as the horizon."

"It won't come to that."

"Promise me."

His lips are set in a hard line, but Fletcher has to concede. "All right," he says. "If the time comes, I'll do it myself."

Finnick nods.

"Any more simple favours?" he asks derisively.

Wetting his lips, Finnick says in a soft voice, "Just one."

"On with it."

"Tell them about me someday," he says, his eyes prickling with tears. He quickly gulps them away. "Not the bad stuff. Not anything, really. Just that they had an uncle, once. And he wished that he had been brave enough to be a part of their lives."

It's the first time that Fletcher averts his eyes, no doubt thinking of his daughters. The family he must fiercely protect.

With resolve, he lifts his head. "They'll know," he assures Finnick with a nod. He places a hand on his shoulder, the grey of his eyes boring honestly into Finnick's as he says, "I'll be waiting this time, brother. So you do what you can to make it back."

Finnick's heart is heavy, but he nods for Fletcher's sake.

And when he leaves their cottage with tears of rage and injustice and loss in his eyes, he knows those were last words.

The very last words.

* * *

><p>He sets fire to his house in the Victor's Village the night before the Reaping. He stands in front of it, flinching every time an ember gets too close, intent on watching it burn to the ground. The other victors step outside in shock and terror, but they do not call for help.<p>

He will not be made to live anywhere. He will not be constrained within the four walls that brought about his family's demise. And if he does not return, he will not have it stand here for his family's memories to be picked apart.

The Odairs were servants of the Capitol in life. If there's one last thing he does, it will be to free them in death.

And as the house crumbles in front of his murderous eyes, he fingers the gold bangle in his pocket. The bangle covered in flames.

Katniss Everdeen sparked a fire, and he will ensure it spreads.

* * *

><p>All it takes is one longing, grief-stricken glance at one another in the dimly-lit room before they are in each other's arms, ripping, tearing, clawing, grasping. They make love fiercely and desperately, without uttering a word. If he worries he's being too rough, her sharp nails digging into his back tell another story. And afterward, panting violently, damp hair pasted to the back of his neck and forehead, he holds close her trembling body and convinces her the droplets on his cheeks are beads of perspiration.<p>

* * *

><p>This day will be a beautiful one. Finnick knows it as soon as he opens his eyes to the blinding orange hues of the sunrise. There can't be a single cloud in the vast, cerulean sky. It's a day for trawling, for fishing, for boating. A day to hunt, to gather, to build, to recreate.<p>

But instead, it will be a day for the Reaping.

As his eyes adjust to the light streaming in through the doors of the veranda, he lets his gaze rest on Annie, who sleeps peacefully on his outstretched arm, her dark hair fanning over her bare shoulders. Just watching her soft breaths blow strands of hair back and forth is enough for his chest to constrict and his throat to tighten with emotion.

This will very well be the last time. The last morning he will wake with her in his arms.

The thought of it is too much to bear, so he takes great care disentangling himself from her and quickly dons a pair of shorts before quietly exiting the bedroom. He's hungry, but he does not feel like eating – still, he cuts himself a slice of Annie's fresh-made seaweed bread in the kitchen and takes it with him outside along with a coil of rope.

He doesn't go very far, just a few yards west of the house, where all there is to see is open sky and an endless ocean. The sand is warm and soft beneath his toes, and he sits with the rope on his lap and begins to knot. His fingers move so mindlessly – yet so accurately – over the rope that he doesn't even have to look anymore. That's just as well to him; he'd rather spend every last minute in the district taking in something beautiful than staring at a harried string of rope.

The tide is unthreatening this morning, climbing stealthily up the beach at a snail's pace. The sea is the clearest blue it's ever been, he's sure of it, and he wonders how many fish he could have brought home today – or in a lifetime – if he'd ever been given a chance.

An hour must have passed, gazing silently over the sea, before a hand is on his shoulder. Annie uses his broad shoulders to ease herself to the sand beside him, a mug of tea in the other hand. Wordlessly, she rubs his back, and he notes that it stings from their romp the previous night. It's a pleasant kind of pain, one he'd be happy to endure forever.

But in all his life, he's never been afforded such luxuries.

"When I was young," he says after a long period of silence, "I wasted so much energy hating District 4. I hated the way the stench of fish soaked into every article of clothing, every particle of air. I hated how the sun dried out and burnt my skin. I hated fishing, the tediousness of it all – readying the trawlers, sailing to the deep ocean, the long wait for a catch that might never come at all. I hated that my only option was to keep doing it for the rest of my life."

He sighs, bringing a knee up to his chest and resting an arm across it. Annie's fingers trace the lines in his back as her eyes stray to the water.

Gulping down his anger, he asks, "Now that I'm older, you know what I hate about this place?"

"What?"

He wets his lips. "Nothing."

Her hand glides to his shoulder then, resting there. She turns her chin to him, stating gently, "It's your home."

He nods, finding a fierce sense of belonging in his chest that he's certain was never there before. Everything is so serene. So untouched. And better left alone.

"_Our_ home," he says with emphasis. District 4 is a fishing district; merely a set of lines drawn along a topographical region and assigned an equally meaningless number. But it's home, and surely there's nowhere else he could ever have found Annie.

"There are six other men," Annie remarks, using both hands now to cradle her mug of tea. She reads his thoughts like lines on a page. "It's not going to be you."

While she stares into her cup, he steals a glance at her. Her wild, tangled hair and loose-fitting sweater, thin fingers curled protectively around the mug. They say she's mad, but perhaps she's the only one who clung fiercely enough to herself and never allowed them to rip apart her soul. Somehow, she's an innocent, after all this time.

And he can't bear to tell her that it _is_ going to be him. It is, and his name has been written on the parchment for a lifetime.

* * *

><p>"Let's get started with the women," says Marcocia Duterre, her curvaceous hips swaying with seduction as she saunters to a glass bowl containing only four slips of paper. Just four.<p>

Finnick stands in a roped-off area with the other male victors, his arms limp at his sides. No matter the strength of their rebellion, the district is crushed once again. The colourfully-dressed woman digging her polished fingernails in the glass bowl says it all.

Slowly, he turns his head to the right. Annie stands in her own roped-off area alongside Elsie and Haya. Mags is there, too, holding her hand. And behind them, the district watches on, their mouths forced shut.

Finnick faces the stage again as Marcocia unfolds her chosen slip of paper. With a breath, he closes his eyes, and it's like he's fifteen all over again.

_Not Annie. Anyone but Annie_.

Marcocia's voice is clear and crisp as she calls out, "Annie Cresta."

There it is again – that stab of pain in his chest; the urge to bolt, to grab Annie's hand and flee, made so much worse by her sobs.

His eyes fly open. With her cane gripped in her boney fingers, Mags hobbles forward, urging Annie to stay put.

"I volunteer," she declares in her garbled voice, far braver than anyone he's ever known.

And Finnick's eyes close again, his head hanging over his shoulders. He can't look at Annie or he'll break down.

No one helps the old woman as she takes the stairs one at a time, leaning heavily on her cane. Marcocia simply waits, seemingly taken aback by Mags' determination. The district waits, and for the first time, there is no cheering. Not a single clap amongst the crowd. No one dares cheer the old woman who's headed for certain death to save the life of a mad girl.

"And onto the men," Marcocia says once Mags has taken her place on the platform. She tries to keep her voice chipper, but Finnick can tell that even though she's done this for years and years, she's nervous in front of a crowd so eerily quiet.

Finnick wets his lips, his jaw set. This is it.

"Finnick Odair."

Just as if it was written by Snow's own hand.

With a deep breath, he steps forward, standing as tall as he can.

"No," is Annie's gasp.

"Any volunteers?" Marcocia asks.

Finnick does not glance over his shoulder at the men to find out the answer. He already knows that no one will take his place, for they all know he sealed his fate long ago.

As he begins his march to the stage, Annie's voice grows louder, breaking the thick, suffocating silence.

"No!" she yells, her voice wracked with sobs. "No, you can't take him!"

Joining Mags on the platform, it takes every ounce of strength he has not to look down at Annie. If he looks at her, he'll never be able to look away.

Marcocia announces the tributes of the 75th Hunger Games to the narrowed eyes in the crowd as Elsie and Haya keep Annie within the confines of the roped area. But as the seconds pass and Finnick does not go to her, she grows more and more hysterical.

And then he and Mags are being ushered to the waiting rooms by the peacekeepers, and he looks out to the faces of his home district – the people who have twice condemned him to death.

From high on the rafters of the Justice Building, he sees bronze hair reflecting gold in the sunlight. Fletcher gives him a nod.

"Not Finnick," Annie pleads from below, whimpering in Elsie's arms. "Please."

Before exiting the platform and leaving the district forever, he returns a nod to his brother for the last time.

* * *

><p>It's funny, he remarks, how none of his visitors from ten years ago visit him today. Leander and Roscoe dead. Dixie somewhere in the Capitol. Keane and Odin long since parted ways, knowing they would never understand why so many pieces of him returned jagged and incomplete. Fletcher begged by Finnick not to come.<p>

Nothing is the same. He is not that fourteen-year-old boy anymore, competitive and arrogant and naïve. He is not sure even a shred of that boy still exists.

The mockingjay bracelet slips off his wrist, and he holds it up to the grainy sliver of sunlight peeking through the hole in the wall. Its golden hue reflects, and he turns it back and forth in his hand, certain he can see the bird inside flapping its wings.

_Fly away, mockingjay_. _This world is too ugly to deserve you._

The door to the room opens. In a flash, Annie is across the floor and in his arms, tears streaming down her cheeks and soaking his shirt.

"You did it once," she says, her voice muffled in his shoulder. "You can do it again. You'll come home to me. You'll win."

He sighs, breathing in the fresh scent of her hair. "Annie…"

His indefinite response causes her to pull back. "Finn," she says, green eyes wide and insistent, "say it. Say you'll win."

With a great deal of pain, he holds her head in his hands. Wiping away her tears with his thumbs, he murmurs, "I love you so much."

Her face crumbles, a sob wracking her body. With hands clenched into fists, she pounds at his chest. "Say it!" she cries hysterically. "Say you'll come home! Say you'll do everything to get back here!"

He lets her pound at him, the pain from the blows like a gentle breeze compared to the agony of his tortured heart.

Finally, when she's exerted herself past the point of hysteria, she collapses into him, weeping openly. "Don't leave me alone," she pleads. "You promised you wouldn't. You swore if they took you, you'd come back."

"I didn't know it would be like this."

Voice shaking with emotion, Annie asks to no one in particular, "How can they do this?"

He could stay here comforting her forever, but he hears boots approaching in the hallway and knows they're almost out of time. Without further ado, he places his hands on Annie's shoulders and lifts her chin to ensure she's focused on him.

"Listen to me," he says. "Fletcher's gonna take care of you. He's gonna check in on you and make sure you have everything you need."

Annie shakes her head fervently, a fresh batch of tears surfacing.

"Yes," Finnick insists despite her protests. "And if you need to, you go to him. He'll never deny you. Okay? Do you promise?"

Another sob.

"Annie," he says as the doors open to a peacekeeper, "promise me."

"Time's up," says the peacekeeper.

"I wanna go with you," Annie says, her lip trembling.

"Promise me," Finnick repeats, pulling her to his chest for one last desperate embrace.

The peacekeeper places his hands on Annie's waist. "Out we go," he says.

"No," Annie pleads as she's ripped away, "no, please!"

"Annie, it's okay," Finnick tells her as she fights the armed guard. "I love you." She's frantic, begging for him to let her go. He follows them to the door, and before it's shut on him, he promises one last thing: "I'm yours."

Annie calls out one last time. The peacekeeper's boots fade in the distance as he carries Annie away with him. He thinks of her going back to the house on the sea all on her own. She won't have anyone to hold her, to shake her out of nightmares. There will be no one to make sure she eats on days her mind drifts away, no one to assure her she's safe.

He gives himself a minute. Just one minute, to be overcome with grief. A sob escapes his throat as he leans against the door and hangs his head.

And then, silence.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm posting this early (and in a rush – eek!) because I'm going out for the day. This chapter ended up being about twice the length I intended it to be… heh, sorry about that. If there's one thing I can say for certain, it's that I am a TERRIBLE editor. I can't ever bear to part with anything. <strong>

**The Hunger Games instrumental soundtrack got me through the writing of this chapter. My favourite song is "Searching for Peeta", and I played it over and over during the scene in which Finnick finds the gold bracelet in the sand, and when he burns his house in the Victor's Village. I also played "Healing Katniss" on repeat as I wrote the scene of Finnick's last morning on the beach. **

**Thank you as always to everyone who's taken the time to read and especially those who have been kind enough to leave reviews. For all you anonymous reviewers, please know that I appreciate it as I'm not able to thank you personally :)**


	17. erodes us in the rain

**Chapter 17:** _75__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

Next to President Snow, Marcocia Duterre is the very last person with whom he'd want to spend the final few days of his life. So when they board the train, Jarvis and Elsie, their mentors, immediately sit down for a drink, Mags rests in a wingback chair, exhausted from the heat and emotion of the day, Marcocia attempts to wheel him to the sofa where she can sit and console him, and Finnick shrugs her off and bolts straight to his room.

If she hasn't paid for it, he's under no obligation to provide her his company.

He rests his back against the door, sighing as he runs a hand through his now-dishevelled hair. He can't remember being this devastated ten years ago at fourteen, even after his parents said their goodbyes and Fletcher bid him to die. But back then, he was excited to reach the Capitol, a land of dreams and lights and glamour.

Now, it's just a place his soul goes to die.

He uses the heel of his foot to push himself away from the door and spends a few minutes staring out the window, watching the sand and greenery of District 4 whiz by. Then, when he can no longer bear it, he goes to sit on his bed.

There's an electronic device resting on his nightstand. It resembles a remote control, like the ones used for operating a television, except there is only one circular button at the bottom and the rest seems to be a narrow screen.

Curiously, he picks it up as he sits. He's seen these contraptions before in the Capitol. People use them to communicate. They're like telephones, except you can view the person with whom you're speaking on the screen.

Without expectations, he presses the button.

He startles as a woman appears on the screen almost instantly, plump and middle-aged. She's distracted, wearing a headset yet speaking to someone beside her, and Finnick gets a good glimpse of the silver flowery tattoos in her cheeks. Without a doubt, she's from the Capitol.

There must be another button to turn off the device. Frantically, he lifts it over his head to search underneath. How can he get rid of her image? He brings it down on his lap again and repeatedly presses the same, lone button.

It only takes a few moments before she notices him there, and then a tight-lipped smile crosses her features. "Mr. Odair," she says, and he bristles at the sound of her voice. "We had a strong feeling it might be you."

"Who are you?" he asks, on his guard for the strange torture Snow has undoubtedly planned for him this time around. "What do you want from me?"

"No need to fret," she replies calmly. "Before we continue, I must ask you to please wear the headphones."

"Who are you?" he repeats.

"The headphones, Mr. Odair. They should be in the top drawer of your nightstand."

Confused beyond belief, he sets the device on his lap and retrieves the headphones. He plugs the cord into the remote and inserts the earbuds.

"Thank you for your cooperation," the woman says into her headset. "It's important that this conversation remain confidential, so although you are in your own private compartment, I would appreciate it if you kept your replies to a minimum."

Frustrated and, frankly, annoyed at being told what to do, he demands, "What is going on?"

The woman does not flinch at his tone. "What I'm about to tell you, Mr. Odair, is very dangerous information in the wrong hands. So you'll understand if I ask you a few preliminary questions. You may nod or shake your head in response. Are you wearing the bracelet?"

_The gold bangle adorned with flames._ How would she know about it unless she had given it to him? Gulping, he nods.

"Please hold it up to the screen."

He does so.

"Mr. Odair, as you may have noticed, there are two birds inlaid on the inside of the bracelet. Do you know what these birds are?"

Another nod.

"And do you understand what they have come to represent?"

_The Girl on Fire_. He nods.

"In wearing the bracelet, you understand that you have shown support for the aforementioned symbol and what it represents?"

He gives a final nod, slow and sure.

"Very well. Thank you for your cooperation," she says again. "Mr. Odair, my name is Fulvia Cardew. You may know me as assistant to the Head Gamemaker."

He doesn't recognize her at all, and the mention of her position in the Capitol puts him on edge.

"Mr. Plutarch Heavensbee has been assigned as successor to Mr. Seneca Crane," she continues. "And with your help, we plan to inspire a revolution."

He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. _Plutarch Heavensbee._ All he knows is that suddenly, he feels lighter – as if he should have seen this coming.

"While our roles are critical in the Capitol, we are, more importantly, part of an underground conspiracy that seeks to overthrow the existing government of Panem. And until the victors of the 74th Hunger Games inspired such public dissatisfaction and outrage, we were unsure how to proceed.

"But now, it is clear. The girl is a mockingjay. While she lives, so does the rebellion."

A shiver races down his spine.

"Your strength and agility are precisely what is needed for this mission, Mr. Odair. For as you see, Miss Katniss Everdeen must be kept alive, even when thrown into an arena of death. While Plutarch is Head Gamemaker, there are only so many things he can control in the Arena. Your mission, should you agree to the terms, is to ensure her protection."

"Her protection," Finnick repeats, mumbling under his breath.

"Miss Everdeen will not be informed of our mission until she is pulled from the Arena, alive," Fulvia continues. "She, along with her district partner, will assume that every tribute is her enemy."

"Then how do I—"

"The bracelet, Mr. Odair," Fulvia interrupts him. "It will be your token in the Arena. It will encourage her to trust you."

"How will she know—"

"She'll know," Fulvia interjects again. "It will be a sign to her."

"And if I succeed?" Finnick asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"If _we _succeed," Fulvia corrects, "the girl will be the most influential figure in all of Panem. And with her help, we will overthrow Coriolanus Snow and his dictatorship altogether."

There's a knock on Finnick's door. Marcocia calls his name.

Fulvia hears it, too. Stoic and unsurprised, she finishes, "Be assured that you will not be acting alone in the Arena. District 3 has already pledged its support, although they have their own task to complete. Please keep this remote amongst your belongings. We will next speak at midnight following the tribute parade. Until then, your task will be to make a positive impression on Katniss Everdeen."

"Finnick?" Marcocia asks as she raps on the door. "There are tarts and other treats set out for the tributes. You must be starving."

"Good day, Mr. Odair," says Fulvia.

Then her image fades from the screen. She's gone.

Bewildered, he pinches himself before he rejoins his team.

* * *

><p>His prep team has changed from ten years ago, but his stylist has not. Despite the current circumstances of the Quarter Quell, Desmeretta is cool, calm, and devoted to her tribute playing up his best angle: his body.<p>

The prep team gives him a fresh haircut, sprays his skin with bronzer though he's naturally tan, and decorates his eyes with subtle hints of make-up so that their sea green colour pops. All of this takes remarkably little time compared to what seems like hours bemoaning the state of his back and the tiny purple bruises speckled along his neck and collarbone. Finnick, for one, is happy for the scratches on his back from Annie's nails and the love marks on his skin from her kisses. It's comforting to know that even though she is so far away, she still exists, and his body is physical proof of that.

"Why does it matter?" he finally asks them, irritable from their fussing. "Who's going to see it?"

One of the members of the team calls Desmeretta in to answer the question.

"Because," she says casually, letting golden strings of fabric unfurl from her fists, "you'll be wearing this."

Finnick squints, as if he can barely see the material of the thing. It seems to be a golden codpiece that wraps around him in odd places. Otherwise, every inch of him will be bare.

With his nose wrinkled in disgust, he asks, "Is this necessary?"

"Yes," she answers. "You're the charming, athletic, sexy Finnick Odair. Trust me. It displays you perfectly."

When he puts it on, he refuses to examine himself in a mirror. He doesn't want to know. All he knows is that he feels more inhuman than the Capitol crowd, who gathers each year to cheer for the deaths of children.

* * *

><p>There's a switch inside of him that can be flicked on and off. To be on means to adopt the charming smile, the seductive purr, the arrogant strut. To be off means to be himself. Other than brief moments with Mags or alone in his private quarters, he is certain that he will not be granted the luxury of being "off" for what remains of his short life.<p>

He's "on" as the tributes meet for the first time, gathering in groups to reunite before the tribute parade, the official opening to the Games. This year, chariots guided by horses will pull them along the parade route as they flash their outlandish costumes to the flailing Capitol citizens.

Mags' stylist hasn't finished with her yet, so he approaches the reunion alone, well aware of how ridiculous he looks in his golden knot of a costume but unwilling to let it show. For this is what the Games are all about – never letting them see your fear and insecurities. Finding a way to stand tall despite being stripped of dignity.

His bones feel jittery, loose and clanking against one another. There's a kink in his neck from staring up at Desmeretta from upon a stool. His skin is scrubbed raw, and hit with cool air, it chills him. He begins to salivate, yearning for that sweet little pill that could so easily render him comfortable in his own skin, but he knows he can't fall into that trap. Not this time. Not even when he sees the state of Calix, his yellowish skin so loose, it hangs off his bones, but with eyes that are distant and peaceful.

He expects dirty glares from a number of the tributes. Theia from 9 and Gloss from 1 seem to be the most annoyed by his attire (or lack thereof), and that's not including Johanna, who openly mocks him the minute he greets her.

"So that's how you catch the fish back in 4," she snorts. "I've always been curious."

"Hello, my sweet," Finnick says, scrunching his nose and pinching her cheek with affection. Johanna shrugs him off. "Did you miss me?"

"About as much as I missed a thorn in my side," she retorts, and he can't help but smile in genuine – it's the most he'll get from her. Her stylist has dressed her as a tree: brown trunk, branches, and all. "Seriously, Odair, what are you supposed to be in that string? You look like a thinly-wrapped package."

He raises his eyebrows suggestively at her, deadpanning, "And you, my little sapling, would look much better chopped down and ground into paper."

With a sour glare, she lifts her leafy headdress ever so slightly to scratch underneath. Then she folds her arms across her chest amongst the branches and asks, "So, are you gonna let me win this year? You still owe me a victory since little Miss Annie walked free."

He ignores her mention of his beloved and grins, replying, "I hardly owe you a thing, my dear." A stable boy walks by with a bag of sugar cubes for the horses. Finnick stops him and grabs a handful despite the boy's odd expression. Turning back to Johanna, Finnick continues, "Though if you insist, I will gladly share with you a sugar cube."

She curls her lip in distaste, watching him pop a cube into his mouth and visibly relax with something to chew on. She doesn't have time for another sarcastic comment before Cashmere saunters past, dressed from head to toe in glittering jewels. Flaunting her curves and her impossibly blonde hair, she shrugs a shoulder and says, "Hi, Finnick," as she passes.

"Hello, beautiful," he nods in her direction, but he stays with Johanna. Normally, the brother and sister from 1 are the first to flash him wary glances, although they're the ones in the tribute pool most like him: used sexual objects of the Capitol. Though he's intrigued by Cashmere's sudden interest in him, he senses that Johanna has another biting remark and wants to be around to hear it.

He's right. With her arms still folded, she's standing with one leg extended now, her foot tapping irritably on the ground. "If I didn't have to wait until we were in the Arena, I'd kill you right now," she threatens. "You're just too sickening to endure."

With a forced smile, he can't hide the sadness in his eyes as he asks, "Could you really kill me, Jo?"

"Yes," she says bluntly. "That's the beauty of being free."

"Do you feel free right now?"

"Of course not. But I intend to."

"When is that? When you kill us all?"

"No," she says, her eyes boring into his. "You and I both know that's not the objective of these Games."

With a slight, suspicious frown, he returns, "And what is?"

The corners of her lips turn up, and she glances to her side to make sure no ears are too close. In a whisper, she replies, "To free the mockingjay."

_The mockingjay_. Katniss Everdeen. Johanna knows.

"Heavensbee said 4 was in on it," she continues, and Finnick is relieved that there is so much chatter, hustle and bustle in the arena. "He said he made you Chief of Mockingjay Security."

"And what are you?" he asks in a low, challenging voice.

Unflinchingly, Johanna replies, "Your understudy."

He gulps. Plutarch and Fulvia have thought of everything – even his imminent death.

"The show must go on, _sweetheart_," she says, mocking his dulcet purr.

With a grim expression, Finnick glances around the room at the victors, wondering which of them – if any, aside from Districts 3 and 7 – have been selected by Plutarch Heavensbee to break Katniss out of the Arena. None of the victors glance his way, but he notices the mockingjay herself alone by her chariot, patting her horse in an attempt to go unnoticed.

"I think the show just entered," he says to Johanna out of the corner of his lips.

"Well, then. On with it, Captain Goldenrod," Johanna replies to a shake of his head. She gives him a nudge in Katniss' direction. "She has to trust one of us, and I don't have your puppy eyes or disgusting lack of self-respect. Go and make nice."

He can't resist a roll of his eyes.

"And don't let anyone untie those knots around your shoulders," are Johanna's last words of advice. "The girl's mind would explode at the sight of a naked man."

He chuckles as he heads across the floor of the Remake Center, recalling Katniss' aversion of her eyes when Peeta was so severely wounded and had to strip bare in the Arena. She's untainted, that's for sure, and her awkwardness is one of the only things he can laugh about these days.

He saunters up behind her and leans in close, saying smoothly, "Hello, Katniss." As she turns to greet him, his eyes dance with delight. Up close, she's smaller than he expected, but the raw stubbornness in her grey eyes is just the same as on camera.

Though they've never met, she seems to know him on instinct. With only a brief second's glance, she returns to caressing her horse's nose and returns, "Hello, Finnick."

He raises his eyebrows but does not comment – he senses it's taking all her nerve to appear uninterested. Popping a cube into his mouth, he holds his hand out to her. "Want a sugar cube?" After she scrunches her nose, he adds, "They're supposed to be for the horses, but who cares? They've got years to eat sugar, whereas you and I… well, if we see something sweet, we better grab it up quick."

He gives her a wink that's anything but subtle, and nearly bursts into laughter as she visibly shudders. Still, he keeps a straight face and leans against the horse, folding his arms across his chest in that sultry manner to which he's so accustomed.

"No, thanks," she answers, shrugging uncomfortably at his proximity to her. It only takes another raise of his eyebrows for her to gather her wits and bite back, "I'd love to borrow your outfit sometime, though."

Unashamed, he grins. She's a clever girl, that Katniss Everdeen. Not nearly as witty as Johanna, but she has the same fight in her.

"You're absolutely terrifying me in that getup. What happened to the pretty little-girl dresses?"

"I outgrew them," she says with a hint of defiance.

His fingers run along her collar as he tests her, seeing just how far she'll let him go. How competitive is the Girl on Fire?

"It's too bad about this Quell thing," he says with nonchalance, eyes on the collar of her costume. Her eyes flicker downwards too, following his fingers with caution. "You could have made out like a bandit in the Capitol. Jewels, money, anything you wanted."

_At the expense of your soul_, he fails to add.

Katniss' stiff grey eyes are icy as she says in a crisp tone, "I don't like jewels, and I have more money than I need." Before he can salute her on her integrity, she counters, "What do you spend all yours on, anyway, Finnick?"

A wry smile crosses his lips. As tough an act as she's putting on, he can't bear to tarnish her innocence. He answers simply, "Oh, I haven't dealt in anything as common as money for years."

"Then how do they pay you for the pleasure of your company?"

Softly, distantly, he replies, "With secrets."

And then he can't reason within himself why he admitted it aloud. But if she has to trust him, then she must be able to see some truth hidden behind his dancing eyes and curved lips.

Katniss' rough expression morphs into one of confusion. He cocks his head suggestively, revamping their repartee in asking, "What about you, Girl on Fire? Do you have any secrets worth my time?"

The rouge creeping up her neck is unsatisfying to Finnick – rather, he regrets his sexual innuendo. She's so unexposed to the Capitol that his forwardness has clearly unsettled her.

Still, the Girl on Fire will not be humiliated. "No, I'm an open book. Everybody seems to know my secrets before I know them myself."

He remembers why he struck up a conversation in the first place: to gain her trust, rather than to provoke her. With a stab of regret, he smiles sadly and says, "Unfortunately, I think that's true." From the corner of his eye, he sees a head of blond hair approaching with eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he knows his time is up. "Peeta is coming," he says to Katniss. He takes a step backward, pausing to add as an afterthought in a voice that is unusually void of sexuality, "Sorry you have to cancel your wedding. I know how devastating that must be for you."

Then he takes his leave, meandering to his chariot where Mags is waiting. Perhaps he should have read Katniss better from the beginning – like Johanna, she is uncharacteristically immune to his charms. She couldn't think less of him, at this point. Perhaps she'll never know that his last words were sincere.

After all, she's not the only one who had to cancel a wedding.

* * *

><p>Finnick, who has informed Mags of the underground conspiracy, anticipates his second meeting with the tattooed Fulvia Cardew. While Mags retreats to her own room after the tribute parade so as not to arouse suspicion, Finnick retrieves the remote from his duffel and waits inside the shower of his suite for Fulvia to make her appearance onscreen.<p>

There is a plan to break them out, she informs him. Not just the mockingjay, but all of them. While she can't disclose where they will be taken, she can now reveal the full list of districts involved in the plot. 3, 4, 7, 8, and 11, she says – as well as Haymitch, Katniss and Peeta's mentor, who will encourage his tributes to align with Finnick.

"I want District 6 involved," Finnick says, and when Fulvia protests, he swears to her that Calix is not only trustworthy, but kind, compassionate, and willing to sacrifice whatever he has left in order to bring about Snow's demise. He's not sure what prompts him to take such a strong stance for a tribute he's barely ever spoken to, but what he hasn't said to Calix in words, he's seen in the morphling's heavy eyes.

The assistant to the Head Gamemaker explains how they will communicate to the tributes in the Arena. Bread – a supposed gift from sponsors. The district from which the bread originates indicates the day of the breakout; the number of rolls, the time.

"Plutarch will ensure there's a trident amongst the weapons in the Cornucopia," Fulvia assures him. "Be sure to grab it. The girl, no doubt, will make a beeline for the bow and arrows. Do not get them for her, even if you have the opportunity – it will be more difficult for her to trust you if she suspects you aim to steal her weapon."

With a trident for himself and a bow for Katniss, they'll be likely to survive the Bloodbath and get the boy – Peeta – out alive.

"I thought I was only in charge of the mockingjay," he protests. The boy seems rather helpless to him – more of a hassle; a detriment to his and Katniss' survival than anything else.

"She'll never cooperate if she doesn't have the boy with her," Fulvia insists. "Otherwise, she'll prefer to be solo. If you can offer protection to the boy, you'll have her trust."

Finnick groans. From what he remembers, it's difficult enough just to keep one's self alive in the Arena – let alone _two _others. And he can't forget about Mags.

Fulvia repeats to him the districts which are involved. "Everyone else cannot be trusted," she says, her voice low and solemn. "So when you get the chance… kill them."

* * *

><p><em>Kill them. Kill them. Kill them.<em>

The two words twirl in figure-eights around his mind until he's sure they're being screamed at him. _Kill them!_ How can he, when they're all pathetic pawns of Snow, just like him?

"They're victors, too," Mags reminds him. "They won their Games with as much intention as you. And don't forget – as friendly as they seem today, another instinct takes over in the Arena."

She's right. He's seen it, year after year: sweet, friendly, good-natured tributes turning into cat-eyed, teeth-baring animals during the Games. The Arena changes everyone.

It certainly changed him. And for the first time in a very long time, he thinks of Saskia and her wide, open eyes before his trident impaled her chest.

Keeping this in mind, he arrives at the Training Center on the first day of training prepared to pick up new skills. He trusts that Plutarch will stash a trident for him in the Cornucopia, but he won't take any chances – he'll learn a little bit of everything, just in case. Swords. Bows. Knives. Spears. For so long, he's relied on good looks, charm and a childhood spent more at sea than on land, but no longer.

It's surprising to him that only half of the tributes bothered to show up to the training session. Atala, the Head Trainer, goes ahead and starts without the rest. Mags, for one, decided to take her sweet time, and he recalls that Johanna and her partner had a meeting with Fulvia – still, he wonders if the others aren't prepared to put up a good fight.

He goes to the sword station first, but is only there a little over an hour. Katniss Everdeen is on his radar, and she appears to be struggling with a complicated knot at the knot-tying station. Approaching her from behind, he snakes his arms around and wordlessly finishes the knot for her. Katniss is not startled by his appearance – rather, she looks over her shoulder in boredom and merely rolls her eyes when he quickly fashions a noose and pretends to hang himself.

_Interesting_, Finnick thinks. So very rarely does he have to be the pursuer. Some women like to be seduced, of course, but they've paid for it, and he knows he has them even before they meet. Katniss Everdeen, on the other hand, requires some effort – and he doesn't have a lot of time.

He joins Brutus, the middle-aged but vicious tribute from District 2, at the spear-throwing station. Amidst their grunting and groaning from exertion, they make gruff small-talk. Brutus, he gathers, would be open to an alliance. That probably just includes him – he can't imagine the man would have any patience for Mags.

It's true that allying with the Careers is much safer than not, but he doubts that even his charms will be able to convince them to take on Katniss and Peeta, too. No, they'll be prime targets from the get-go.

When Mags arrives, Finnick joins her at the archery station. Her fingers shake and she can't manage to shoot the arrow very far, but what she lacks in strength and skill, Finnick more than makes up for. Though he hasn't had much experience with archery – almost none, in fact, as there's little use for it in District 4 – he's able to get within a couple of inches of the target after a couple of hours.

All the while, he keeps an eye on Katniss through peripheral vision. She and Peeta seem determined to combine their skills and speak to as many of the tributes as possible, so they spend the day separately with different tributes at different stations. Finnick notices her with Beetee and Wiress at the fire making station and leaves them be. Perhaps the tributes from 3 will be more successful in gaining her trust, though he's not sure how useful they'll be when it comes to defending her life.

After lunch, in which Katniss and Peeta sit close together and speak in hushed tones, Finnick knows he has to try again. But this time, he has an unlikely secret weapon: Mags. She's the mother to all the victors; the endearing old woman not intimidated by anything. If Finnick knows anything about Katniss – and from watching her with the twelve-year-old in last year's Arena and her sister, he thinks he does – she won't be offended by Mags.

He's right. Though Katniss seems annoyed by his approaching her again, he introduces her to Mags and leaves them be for a few minutes. When he returns, he's pleased that Katniss appears fascinated with Mags' skill of making fish hooks.

The girl is strange, no doubt – Enobaria from 2 can rip open a human's throat with her teeth, and Brutus can snap a neck with a simple twist of his bare hands, but fish hooks are what have Katniss impressed. She's either odd or foolish beyond comparison – and he's willing to bet it's not the latter.

The more he studies her, the more Finnick thinks he kind of likes her.

At the knife-throwing station, Finnick meets up with Chaff from 11. The two of them exchange few words, and he senses that, like so many of the victors, Chaff has never been his biggest fan. Still, there is an unspoken understanding between the two of them. They are, somehow, working toward the same goal.

Gloss from 1 joins them after a while, his white-blond hair dishevelled after coming from the hand-to-hand combat station. The brother-sister duo have never been particularly friendly with him – in fact, he's always assumed them jealous of his long waitlist of patrons, though neither of them are far behind – but today, Gloss makes a decent effort to befriend him. Others, like Theia from 9 and the male from 10, look upon him with fear, for from observing him throughout the day, they've learned that he's a threat. But the Careers only seem pleased, extending their hands of friendship in the hopes that they can get him close enough to kill him.

Oh, and how Gloss and Cashmere would delight in his death! Finally, they would be the most desired in all of Panem. _A lofty goal_, Finnick muses with a roll of his eyes.

Gloss is just about ready to discuss alliance details when Finnick brushes him off rather rudely, something else calling his attention. From across the enormous training room, Katniss Everdeen has ventured to the archery station. She is there by herself with the trainer, and after he decides that stationary targets are too easy, he begins to throw fake birds into the air for her to hit.

Finnick leaves his station and approaches archery with caution, not wanting to disturb the Girl on Fire. And Girl on Fire she is – she hits a target every time; sometimes more than one. Other tributes begin to notice, too, and pause what they're doing to observe.

When Katniss takes out five birds in one round, there's silence throughout the room. Tributes and trainers alike stare in amazement, in awe, envy, fear, loathing.

Finnick stares in admiration. He grins at Katniss when she looks his way.

Though she's embarrassed by the attention, he's certain he catches the slightest curl of her lips – almost as if, against her own will, she was grinning back.

* * *

><p>Katniss wears her wedding dress on the night of the interviews. For a girl on fire, she looks awkward and uncomfortable, and Finnick is reminded of just how young she really is. Ablaze or not, she's only a little girl – far too young to be put on such disgusting display. He sees some of the other tributes staring daggers and his heart goes out to her. They don't understand, not like he does. Finnick suspects that, like him, Katniss never feels more lost and alone than when she's in a crowd.<p>

"Poor girl," Mags says from beside him as they wait in a line by district number to be called onstage for their interview. "In so much trouble simply because she lived."

Finnick knows there's more to it than that, but in essence, she's right.

They watch from backstage as the tributes from the first three districts take the stage. There's a different mood to these Games, that's for sure – even Cashmere and Gloss remark vaguely on the time they've enjoyed as victors, especially in their visits to the Capitol where they felt truly respected and loved by its citizens. The tributes from 3, Beetee and Wiress, examine the Quell from a legal standpoint and cut a little deeper. Tiny Mags sits onstage and bemoans the loss of her dearest friends – the victors have all grown so close over the years. Of course, Finnick is certain that he's the only one who understands every word. Even Caesar Flickerman has to strain to catch her garbled speech.

When Finnick is called onstage, he rolls the sleeves of his dress shirt past his elbows, adjusts his tie and takes a breath, turning on the Capitol switch inside his brain. He receives a standing ovation simply for appearing. No matter how deep is Snow's hatred, he's never fallen out of favour with the Capitol folk. He waves and blows kisses to the crowd, smiling brightly though inside, he's ashen and grey.

Caesar shakes his hand and they take their seats. "Mr. Finnick Odair," Caesar says slowly, and the crowd cheers again. "It's been so long since you sat up here with me as a tribute."

"Ten years," Finnick affirms with a nod.

"You were just fourteen then, is that right?"

"That's right," he says. "Just a stupid boy."

Caesar asks, "And what are you now?"

"A stupid man."

Laughter bellows from the audience.

"Well, I doubt our audience thinks so," Caesar says, and to prove his point, he gestures for a round of applause.

Finnick blows them another sickening kiss, as if to say, _You're too much_.

"Now, Finnick," Caesar continues, "each year you've returned to the Games as mentor, and you've made quite the impression on the Capitol – especially on the female population."

Another uproar of hoots and hollers. Finnick grins and winks at the audience.

"And each year, I've watched your female tributes fall absolutely in love with you," Caesar goes on. "Is that going to be your strategy during this Quarter Quell? To seduce your enemies in the Arena?"

"It could be," Finnick says with a laugh. His smile fades quickly. "But they're not my enemies."

_Snow is my enemy_.

"Of course not," Caesar says, completely misinterpreting his comment. "For who wouldn't fall in love with that golden smile?" He pauses a moment to allow the crowd to cheer. "Tell me, Finnick, will there be a special woman on your mind tomorrow when you enter the Arena?"

"No," he replies in earnest. "I'll be trying my hardest not to bring her into the Arena with me at all. It's not where she belongs."

"Ah, but there _is_ a special woman," Caesar says, winking to the crowd.

"Yes," Finnick answers, refusing to elaborate further. He pulls a piece of parchment, covered in haphazard scribbles, from the pocket of his shirt.

"And what's that?" asks Caesar, gesturing to the paper.

"If you don't mind," says Finnick, unfolding the paper, "I'd like to read something. It's a poem I wrote for my one, true love – all the things I couldn't say when it was time for goodbyes."

There are gasps and 'aww's' from the crowd, murmurings of who she might be: the girl loved by Finnick Odair, the boy who flits from woman to woman like it's nothing at all.

Caesar looks surprised, but he has to go with the mood of the crowd. "By all means."

"I have to apologize," Finnick says demurely, a flush creeping up his neck. He has never borne his heart so openly in the Capitol, but now is the time for bravery. "I'm not much of a poet."

And then he leans over, resting his elbows on his knees as he reads aloud the words he never got the chance to say in person.

_Be still, my love, don't make a sound  
>Leave the weeping to the rain.<br>For if the tides should take me away,  
>Know that I'll feel no pain.<br>If a blade should strike my heart,  
>Or an arrow pierce my skin,<br>I'll be dreaming of your salty kiss  
>Over and over again.<br>The knots, they bind me tighter now  
>And time is a loaded gun,<br>Remember, my love: we're worlds apart  
>Yet our hearts beat in time as one.<br>The walls close in and the waves ride high  
>And everything's choked in grey.<br>But your smile shines on me like the sun  
>And I won't let them take that away.<br>Your whisper lingers in my ear  
>As I feel you with me now<br>You tremble, but you need not fear  
>For darling, this is my vow:<br>If my heart should cease to beat  
>I'll still be carried out to sea<br>And I'll float away to that special place  
>Like a dream, where one day, I'll again see your face.<em>

When he finishes, there is silence in the crowd. Finnick straightens his back and stares at Caesar, waiting for his reaction.

He doesn't have to wait long. The crowd bursts into a mixture of applause, of tears, of mass hysterical displays of grief and woe.

"Who is this vixen who has so ensnared your heart?" Caesar manages to ask over the audience.

Finnick shrugs. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

Finnick can only give him a devious smile.

"Just between you and me," Caesar says, whispering into the microphone as if the audience can't hear. "Our little secret."

And the bronze-haired victor leans forward, his eyes clouded over with the darkness the Capitol has embedded within his soul. "Caesar," he says in his seductive purr, "this is a secret I'd die to keep."

"Well," replies the host, "let's hope it doesn't come to that."

* * *

><p>The audience is an absolute weeping, shrieking, gasping mess by the time twenty-four tributes have been interviewed, and much of this pandemonium is caused by Peeta Mellark, Katniss' district partner, who has once again proved that they save the best for last. Revealing to Panem that Katniss is pregnant was a move so cunning, Finnick had to applaud him. While half of the districts prepared to enter the Arena to keep the mockingjay and her boy safe, the boy was playing a ferocious game all his own.<p>

The icing on the proverbial cake has to be when the tributes join hands and take a bow for all of Panem as a reminder that they will be entering the Arena as friends, not enemies – and that makes it all the more horrific.

It's their final act of defiance, and Finnick knows they've done wrong when the lights are cut and everyone must stagger blindly back into the Training Center.

He'd be content to spend his final free hours reflecting alone in his room, but after the show staged by the boy from 12, he knows he has to try for Katniss' trust one last time. It may even be better to target Peeta this time rather than Katniss. Once he has the boy's trust, it's up to Peeta to convince the mockingjay – and Peeta, it seems, has a clever way with words.

"They're playing their own game now," Johanna whispers into his ear, somehow finding him amongst the tributes in the darkness. "We need to tell them."

It's as if she can read his mind.

"Let's go," is all he says in reply. The two push through tributes and mentors, struggling to make their way to the front of the crowd, where Peeta and Katniss are just stepping onto an elevator to ascend to the twelfth floor.

Finnick and Johanna are just behind them, but before they can board the elevator, a burly peacekeeper sticks out his arm and shakes his head.

"Please," Finnick pleads, but he already knows the answer.

The doors to the elevator slide to a close with Katniss gazing curiously at the unlikely duo.

Johanna curses under her breath, but as they step away from the elevator and mix in with the remaining tributes once again, she sighs, "That's it, then. We're just going to have to be convincing in the Arena."

She's right. And for a couple who see past his charms and play by their own rules, he has his work cut out for him.

Grimly, he replies to his feisty companion, "Then you'd better learn to smile, sweetheart."

* * *

><p>"Everything is in place, Mr. Odair," Fulvia confirms with him through the remote. The next day, he'll go into the Arena. "Each participating tribute knows their role, though not all are as informed as you. I repeat, the involved districts are 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, and 11. No one else is to be trusted."<p>

"And how long do I have to protect the girl before the break-in?"

In a clipped tone, Fulvia responds, "As discussed, we will communicate this to you via sponsor gifts in the Arena. You recall the process."

"You can't give me any hints?" he asks, exasperated.

Fulvia ignores him. "I cannot stress enough the secrecy of this mission," she says, "nor the exorbitant amount of confidence we've placed in you."

He grumbles, annoyed by her avoidance of his question.

"If the revolution is to be carried out at this point with even a remote chance of success, it is imperative that the girl stays alive."

"I know," he mutters.

"For Snow to be thrown from power," Fulvia continues, her voice lowering, "means a drastic upheaval of the current structure of our world. Imagine a nation not ruled by revenge and lust for power. Sovereign districts thriving on the fruits of their own productivity rather than suffering under the brutal hands of the regime. A narrowing of the gap between the rich and the poor."

He can only nod. It all means nothing to him until Fulvia adds, "A world without the Hunger Games."

Of course, nothing – not even a land ruled in peace and harmony where citizens live without fear – can fix what's already been broken. As long as she lives, Annie will be haunted by the Games. And as long as he lives, however narrow a time span that may be, he will be a broken man.

But for all the new children waiting to be born – and for Fletcher's children, curious Bellamy and little Ivy – to live without the threat of Reaping Day… it's something for which he would fight to the death.

"Rebellion does not come without a cost, Mr. Odair," Fulvia says, her tone grim. "Lives will be taken. Villages will be destroyed. But despite the bitter bloodshed, we must not allow ourselves to lose the most extraordinary of human capabilities: hope."

_The mockingjay is hope_.

"And so I must ask you: do you agree that Katniss Everdeen is the best candidate to inspire the revolution?"

"I do," he replies.

"Do you agree that her survival is of utmost importance?"

"I do."

"Will you ensure to the best of your capabilities that she survives in the Arena?"

"I will."

"And, if the fates may be, will you give your life to save her?"

Finnick gulps. With a strong, even voice, he answers, "I will."

Fulvia gives him a curt nod. "Very well, Mr. Odair. Panem will one day thank you for your selfless service."

The remote clicks off for the very last time.

Alone in his room, Finnick climbs into bed, very much awake. He believes in what he said – he believes with everything in him that Katniss Everdeen, the undersized young archer from 12, will change the world.

He's just sorry he won't be there to see what it looks like on the other side.

* * *

><p>Desmeretta waits with him in the Launch Room. Both are fairly silent after she determines he does not require any last-minute touches. She asks why the gold bangle is his token.<p>

"Because it means something to me," is all he can reply. He can't endanger others with even the slightest hint of the impending Arena rebellion. He's thankful that he never said a word of it to Annie, not even voicing his suspicions. For if the plan falls to pieces and everything is shot to hell, he still needs to know she will be safe.

_Annie_. In these last few minutes alone, she's what circles his mind in a roundabout. He allows her long, dark hair and soft sea green eyes to swirl in his memory until the countdown begins. Then, painfully, he pushes her from his thoughts and keeps her safely contained only in his heart.

"We'll see you on the other side," Desmeretta says after embracing him.

He doesn't respond.

She backs away, allowing him to enter the glass cylinder alone. "I love ya, kid," are her final words.

Before the tube closes and begins its ascension, Finnick stares blankly at his stylist, replying darkly, "I wouldn't, if I were you."

Because, for a boy who has sworn not to love anyone but Annie, there is suddenly an abundance of people to care for. So many who may die due to his failure to protect them.

The tube locks him in and begins to rise. Finnick turns his back to Desmeretta and shuts his eyes to the blinding sunlight above, taking one last deep breath._ This is the last moment I am human_, he says to himself. _Soon I will be_ _programmed to kill._

He keeps his eyes closed, holding these last few seconds to himself. It's only when the tube rescinds around him and he hears the sloshing of water that he opens his eyes to waves.

_Waves_. The golden Cornucopia is on an island, elevated by spokes that extend about forty yards to the tributes' platforms. He's certain that Plutarch designed it this way to give him a distinct advantage. There would be very few tributes who know how to swim.

The Cornucopia is stocked, as always. Finnick catches a glint of silver in the sunlight and realizes that a trident has been placed suspiciously close to him, just outside the opening of the gold metal horn. Within mere minutes, the trident will be stained with blood.

As the clock counts down the seconds, Finnick surveys his competition. He curses to himself as he glances left and right, realizing that Katniss must be hidden from him behind the Cornucopia. Rebel conspirator or not, Heavensbee wouldn't have made it _that _easy. There are two tributes between each set of spokes, and Finnick is settled right next to Theia from 9, whose eyes haven't yet adjusted to the glaring sun. Peeta is within the adjacent spoke.

His throat is tight with anticipation as he sees Johanna several spokes to his left, her eyes darting wildly as she struggles to strategize. It's the first time he's ever seen her terrified, and he cringes. The water surrounds all of the platforms – there's no way out but to swim through the violent waves. She'll have to figure this one out on her own.

This is it, then. They are the best of the best, and now the Capitol will watch them all fall down.

As the clock begins to count down from ten, Finnick shuts out the other tributes and tunes his senses to high alert. He gets into position, leaning forward on his haunches and stretching his fingers by his sides before balling his hands into fists. He stares straight ahead and hardens his eyes.

He has a mission now, and even if it takes his own life, he will not fail the Girl on Fire.

This is for District 4. For Roscoe and Dixie and Leander. For Fletcher and his family. For Annie.

_Three… two… one…_

* * *

><p>… <strong>sorry for the cliffhanger. At the same time, I think most of you know that I've attempted to be fairly true to canon, so if you've read <em>Catching Fire<em>, it really isn't much of a cliffhanger at all.**

**I apologize TENFOLD for the length of this note. I've tried so hard not to write mile-long notes up until now, but this time I just can't hold back.**

**First of all, happy birthday to Bruno :) I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you to ALL my anonymous reviewers, I wish there was a button to reply to you all individually because I so appreciate the time you've taken to read and review!**

**Three things about this chapter: first, I intended to end the story on the last chapter. Up until about chapter 10 it was written to end at the point where Finnick is reaped for the Quarter Quell. I was so afraid of being bogged down by the happenings in the book that I wanted it to conclude at a "safe place". But after thinking about it… and after some of your reviews… I knew I couldn't leave it at that. It just wouldn't feel complete. And obviously, I've been writing the last five or so chapters for a story that is moving forward, because the previous chapter certainly didn't end conclusively. **

**Second, and in conjunction with that last point, a lot of what happened in this chapter was fleshed out, outlined or briefly mentioned in _Catching Fire_. I don't foresee the rest of this story being like that; I just found it a really interesting task to write the prelude to the Games in Finnick's perspective this time around. While I plan to use the books as a guide going forward, I have my own ideas too :)**

**Third, and lastly, I am definitely not a poet by _any_ means. It honestly terrifies me. For the longest time, I was planning to bypass Finnick's interview or just say something stupid along the lines of "And then he read his poem to the crowd. They cried. It was magical." But then, one day I stopped being such a coward and realized, "Wait a minute. Finnick is no poet, either. So even if I completely butcher his ode to Annie, I can still pass it off as _his_." So. I admit I know nothing about poetry. I admit I don't practice it at all. All I tried to do was put a little Finnick into the poem – and I think he would have enjoyed his trickery, reading his poem aloud to a Capitol audience in which every woman believes it's about her, when so many mentions of District 4 are included that it can't possibly be about anyone but Annie. I know the cadence is off and the structure is not uniform, but be easy on me! (And Finnick). **

***I also have to include that The Fray's "Be Still" inspired the first two words of the poem. The first two words were the hardest. I listen to that entire album on repeat to and from work every day and it's inspired well over half of this story. **

***ALSO! I feel like I should mention that many of the happenings in this chapter were pulled straight from _Catching Fire_. The dialogue was all I copied word for word, but clearly the events had a major influence on my writing. **

**If you've made it this far... while I love updating every Sunday and having a goal really keeps me motivated during the week, I'm not entirely convinced I'll be able to write a full chapter in the next seven days. May is our busiest month at work, and they have us working longer hours :( I will try my darndest, but please know that if I can't update next Sunday, it will be the ONLY Sunday I don't update! **


	18. oh morning, come bursting

**Chapter 18:** _75__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

The sound of the gong is like an earthquake shuddering in his core, and he dives on instinct, straight into the waves. He does not fear. He knows water better than he knows earth, and he's betting very few of the tributes feel the same.

The waves are rough, but Finnick cuts through them effortlessly and is barely breathless by the time he hoists himself onto the island and races across the hot sand to the Cornucopia. The provisions are piled high at the opening, and he grabs the trident he'd been staring at from his platform just seconds ago. _There_. He feels much more secure with the weapon in his hands. He's about to rummage through the rest of the goods when irregular splashing alerts him he's not alone. His jaw drops as none other than Katniss Everdeen crawls onto the beach, and he just has time to grab a net and duck behind the supplies before she looks ahead and starts running to the horn.

He almost laughs, noting most of the other tributes still stranded on their platforms. Even water can't put out the Girl on Fire.

If he was ever on the fence before, he's now fully on the side of Plutarch Heavensbee. This little stitch of a thing, at seventeen years old, can do anything.

He waits for a moment, allowing her the opportunity to grab the bow and arrows in plain view, before stepping out from hiding and coming up behind her. She'll want to kill him. She might even try if he doesn't convince her fast enough. His Capitol charm begs to be switched on, but he's determined it's useless on her.

Sensing a presence behind her, she arms herself and turns, the arrow aimed straight at his chest. Finnick reacts instinctively, trident at the ready.

"You can swim, too," he says, intent on engaging her in conversation to stall her. "Where did you learn that in District 12?"

Keeping her cool, she replies, "We have a big bathtub."

He chuckles softly. "You must. You like the Arena?"

Her expression darkens. "Not particularly. But you should. They must have built it especially for you."

_Oh, Katniss_, he thinks. _If only you knew_.

Her hands are steady on the bow, and his eyes flicker down and then back up. He'd be grateful for another minute or two of their banter to gain her understanding and cool acceptance, but from the corner of his eye, he sees that a couple of other tributes have made their way into the water. They don't have much time.

So he grins, throwing caution to the wind. "Lucky thing we're allies. Right?"

With a flick of his wrist in the sunlight, her eyes are drawn to his token: the gold bangle. That's all he can do in the time they have. Show her the token and hope she understands. Her eyes narrow with curiosity, and Finnick grips the trident as the male from District 5 makes his way to the shore.

Katniss hears him, too, and he sees that she's torn. In a split second decision, she exclaims, "Right!"

That's all he needs to spring to action. The tribute from 5 is just behind her now. Capitol switch: off. Kill switch: engaged.

"Duck!" he yells to her, and she's so surprised by the change in his voice that she does exactly as he says.

The man from 5 doesn't have time to react before Finnick impales him with his trident. Just a thrust of his weapon and a life is gone.

He's forgotten what it felt like, and what jars him most of all is just how easy it is.

* * *

><p>Leaving Johanna behind, terrified and without strategy on her platform, causes a tug in his heart even in his focused mindset. He whispers her a good luck before hauling Mags over his shoulders and heading with Katniss and Peeta into the jungle.<p>

Katniss has second thoughts as they begin the incline away from the Bloodbath. Finnick senses her swaying thoughts and lifts his trident once more, only to be interrupted by Peacekeeper Peeta, who doesn't seem to realize there's any tension whatsoever.

And then he walks into a wall. An invisible wall, Finnick will give him that, but a wall nonetheless. A force field knocks him out cold and Finnick has to perform CPR while a frantic Katniss watches like a hawk from the sidelines. As he's blowing air into the boy's lungs, Finnick can't help but think that this is only the beginning. He has to keep the boy alive for the girl's trust, but the boy is stupid enough to get himself killed outside of battle. If he dies on Finnick's watch, he's lost Katniss for certain.

He pumps Peeta's chest without mercy, bringing him back to life but also releasing his anger. Bringing them both back alive has always been a daunting task, but all of a sudden, he wonders why it had to be placed on his shoulders, and_ only_ his shoulders.

There's Mags to think about, too. He doesn't know how long she has left, but he'll tote her around with him until it's physically impossible, just as they planned. But with Peeta almost dead under his hands, he's not sure he can go through with it. Losing Mags… he can't bear it. And to what? To a stupid boy who's only going to get himself killed anyway?

"Peeta," Katniss whimpers as Finnick repeats the process. When the boy finally gives a small cough, Finnick wipes his brow and sits back, knowing he'll live.

Katniss is shocked at his survival, and lunges forward as soon as he stirs. Finnick gives them space to reunite, frowning as he watches their interaction. Tears stream down Katniss' cheeks, and she brushes away Peeta's hair so tenderly. _That's curious_, Finnick thinks. The girl is no actress, and people don't change overnight. But from the way she's sobbing, one would think her feelings were genuine…

"Katniss?" Peeta asks, his soft voice saturated with worry.

"It's okay," Finnick jumps in. "It's just her hormones. From the baby."

This gets Katniss crying harder. When he meets her eyes, he's puzzled and quizzical. He's almost certain there's no baby. Not from these two. But love… could there be love?

It doesn't matter. He shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. Love or no love, Katniss is the one who must survive.

Katniss appears furious with him. He can't quite figure out why – he did just save the boy's life, after all.

As they pick up and move on, Finnick runs a hand through his hair and breathes out. He's part of an underground political conspiracy, and yet he suddenly feels as though he's the one in the dark.

Must be this thickly humid jungle air.

* * *

><p>Finnick and Mags construct a shelter out of woven vines for their first night. When the anthem sounds, all four tributes gather at the opening of the shelter to stare into the sky at the images of the fallen. Though the air is wet and sticky, his throat is parched and dry as bone. He tries to swallow away the guilt when the image of the male from 5 is projected onscreen, but he can't, and it sits as a lump in his throat.<p>

Next is Calix. Massacred in the Bloodbath. Finnick hangs his head and Mags gives his hand a squeeze.

Both tributes from 8, both from 9 – he thinks of Theia, the one who was always quick to flash him a glare, and feels a stab of regret for never getting the chance to change her mind – and the women from 10 and 11. Out of their alliance of, four are dead. Just like that.

Only eight remaining to carry out the mission. And Katniss and Peeta, of course. All that really matters is that they're still alive.

They all watch the silver parachute float down from the sky. Finnick is too drained to reach for it, and as it doesn't look like a gallon of water, he can't find the strength to care.

Eight dead. Eight of the Games' finest.

_ Is that enough for you, Snow? Or can your power only be sustained by crushing us all? _

* * *

><p>When Katniss wakes him, he's on his feet in an instant, trident poised for attack. But it won't be much use against the impending enemy: the fog, gliding slowly towards them. His first instinct is to grab Mags and run.<p>

He expects Katniss and Peeta to follow suit, but a hundred yards into the jungle, he realizes he can't hear their footsteps.

That's not good.

He shouts encouragement while rooted in place, panic growing in his chest as he realizes that it's not only Mags, but Peeta who's not fit to run. There's no choice but to give Mags to Katniss and to throw the boy over his own shoulders.

Peeta may not be tall, but he's broad and muscular, and it slows Finnick down considerably. As the fog creeps over them, Finnick feels his limbs loosen and shake involuntarily. He grunts from exertion with every step, nearly screaming with pain as his skin blisters. Whatever chemicals are in the fog, they're there to kill.

The gamemakers certainly intend to keep the audience amused this time around and won't waste any time drawing out the Games. It's on the tip of his tongue to curse Plutarch Heavensbee, to demand why he's making it so hard to succeed in his mission.

But he knows. When he looks back at Katniss, who has fallen yet again from Mags' weight on her shoulders, he knows. She's too small. She asks if he can take both of them, Mags and Peeta, but he can't. As his eyes shine with frustration and struggle and _panic_, he knows this has to happen. Heavensbee has to kill them, one by one, to throw Snow off his scent. Tonight it will be Mags. Tomorrow it might just be him.

With gathered strength, Mags stands herself up and walks to him. Eyes watery with resolve, she kisses him goodbye. He can't even find the words to say. It's happening too fast. His limbs are out of control, his arms jerking and his legs on the verge of collapse, and he wishes he could find words for Mags. But there are none, and she doesn't need any. The look in her eyes says it all.

She walks into the fog.

He can't watch, so he runs. With Peeta on his shoulders, he takes off, careening through the jungle as fast as his weary, affected legs can carry them. He can only hope that Katniss is following somewhere behind. If not, he's failed, but what does it matter now? The fog burns his skin and warps his mind until all he can see in front of him is Mags' decrepit figure stumbling into the mist. He chases her and chases her, begging her to come back, until he can't chase her anymore and falls to the ground with Peeta still on top of him. Moments later, there's an added weight – must be Katniss. Maybe not.

They lie there, panting and twitching, for who knows how long. Finnick's mind feels heavy and dragging, and he only follows the others downhill to the Cornucopia at a crawl because they tell him to and he can't think anymore. Every second, his body screams at him to stop, but he keeps saying 'Just one more step', and that's how he gets there. The water around the Cornucopia is so appealing, but one touch sends him through a whirlwind of excruciating pain, and he backs away with animalistic wariness.

_I'm not far behind, Mags_, he thinks as the world fades to black.

* * *

><p>He wakes days – hours? – later to a pair of steel grey eyes looming over him. The eyes of the mockingjay.<p>

His body aches – no, _throbs_ – with agony, and the first thing he thinks is that he's sorry they didn't let him die. With stinging sensations all over his body, like frozen skin exposed to sudden heat, he knows he is very much alive, for death wouldn't feel like this.

At least, he doesn't think so.

It takes a few moments of staring quizzically into those grey eyes before he realizes that his head rests in Katniss' lap, his entire body submerged in the saltwater. And the longer he sits there, eyes fixated on hers, he slowly realizes that it's helping. The water, that is. It seems to be drawing out the poison that has seeped into his skin.

The last time he was in the Arena, the lake was poisoned on them and they lay jerking on the shore until medical aid was sent in. This time, it's the very air that's poisoned, and only the water can save them.

_Clever_, he thinks dryly.

But with those hard grey eyes latched onto his and her hand to hold onto while he submerges his blistered face in the water and nearly blacks out all over again from the pain, he wonders if he should be glad for it all – if, perhaps, Mags' death was orchestrated by Heavensbee to demonstrate to Katniss how fully Finnick is on her side.

She and Peeta could have left him there by the lake. He had already lost consciousness; it would have been a drawn-out but peaceful death. Instead, they brought him back to life. Nursed him to health.

All it took to gain their trust was the life of his mentor and nearly his own.

* * *

><p>The monkeys swarm them in droves, and Finnick has never met creatures he disliked more. Aside from the fact that they are clearly Capitol muttations, they are frighteningly human-like in appearance and abilities, yet so very animal in their behaviour. The darkest creatures in District 4 are the sharks, and he'd happily face one right now in place of a monkey.<p>

They make the most horrifying screeching sound when met with his trident, their orange fur growing growing red with blood. Their stench carries in the humid air, and Finnick holds his breath until he can't anymore.

These are creatures programmed to kill. He curses himself for missing the one who almost took out Peeta, but by then it's too late. The female from 6 has already materialized from nowhere to sacrifice herself.

The female from 6. There's no way she'll make it. She gasps as they drag her to the beach, blood gurgling in her throat from the holes in her chest. Just like Calix, she is emaciated and grey, sick from the morphling. As she takes her last few breaths, Finnick has to walk away. He knows he should stay, but he can't. The guilt gnaws away at his heart, for he knows it was on his suggestion that Calix and his partner were accepted into the conspiracy, and he knows that they are now dead. Any likely scenario would have had them dead anyway, but it's hard to make predictions or assumptions where the Hunger Games is concerned.

Once her body is retrieved by the hovercraft, he and the teenagers make camp, too exhausted from the day's events for any further exertion. With his skin itchy and tarnished by monkey claws, Finnick offers to take first watch. Katniss is about to insist when she sees the desperation on his face and decides to leave him be. He's grateful for that.

Though there are undoubtedly cameras pointed at him, he can only hope that it's too dark for them to catch the tears that well in his eyes and eventually drip down. He didn't cry the first time he was in the Arena, not as a hopeless young boy, but he cries now as a bitter man. For Calix and his partner, who may not be dead if it weren't for his meddling. For Theia from 9 who never liked him anyway. For the man from 5 who added another line of blood to his stained hands.

But most of the tears are for Mags, one of the only people he's ever truly loved. If she were here with him, she'd take his hand in hers and tell him he was strong and brave and so very, very good. But she's not here, so all he can think is that he's weak and cowardly and so very, very careless.

When darkness falls and her image flashes in the sky, he puts three fingers to his lips and then extends them to her. He's seen that somewhere, once. Katniss did so to the little girl who died in her Games.

He's not sure what it means, exactly, but it seems a peaceful way to say goodbye.

* * *

><p>Katniss eyes him strangely in the morning, and he avoids her gaze, suspecting that there are dried tears on his cheeks or redness in his eyes. He did cry through the night, unable to keep his switch turned on in the dark of night. The events of the day caught up with him and the image of Mags walking so bravely into the fog tortured his thoughts. How could Panem revere Snow now, watching the oldest and humblest victor succumbing to a nasty trick of the gamemakers'?<p>

When there were no more tears left, he resolved with ferocity not to let Mags' death be in vain. He would carry on.

And carry on he does, by weaving two bowls of grass and collecting water from the spile in a nearby tree and gathering shellfish in the third bowl. He has everything prepared for Katniss when she wakes and though she regards him with a melange of sympathy, caution and discomfort, she eats and drinks and rewards him with an ointment she asks for from Haymitch, delivered almost instantly. When applied to the skin, the itchiness from the monkey scratches is relieved in seconds, though it certainly does nothing for their appearances.

He feels better after that, like a little piece of himself – or the Capitol piece of himself; it's hard to tell anymore – is still alive somewhere. He jokes around with Katniss and, venturing a step further in determination to solidify her trust in him, suggests they play a joke on Peeta. To his delight, she agrees.

It's a cruel joke to play on a tribute in the Arena, but they put their hideous, ointment-covered faces right in front of his and wake him. The terror in his eyes shouldn't be funny, but it is, and it only is because he has nothing to fear.

It seems like Katniss gets the message, too. She allows herself to laugh with him, assuring the unimpressed Peeta that it was just a joke. Finnick catches her watching him while she helps Peeta apply the ointment to his back. When Peeta's not looking, he smiles at her and gives a gentle nod of his head.

Just like Peeta, she has nothing to fear. Nothing to fear as long as he lives.

* * *

><p>Nothing relieves him more than the sight of Johanna, no matter how weathered and bitter due to her assigned mission, appearing just down the beach. He's so overwhelmed with happiness that he forgets to mention to Katniss and Peeta that it's alright; she's a friend. Instead, he takes off running toward her, and it's a testament to the teenagers' trust in him when they do not shoot or target the tribute from 7 and two from 3, but instead follow him silently.<p>

He wants to lift her up in an embrace and squeeze her so tightly, she cries, but as he nears, he can see she's not in the mood for that – not that she ever would be. Johanna does not _embrace_. She fights and complains and rebels.

That's what he loves about her.

Very quickly, before Katniss and Peeta arrive, she attempts to explain to him all that she's been through with the helpless Beetee and Wiress, but the tributes from 12 are just as eager to hear what she has to say as he is. With annoyed glances their way, she continues her story at rapid pace, finishing with Blight's death by running into a force field – just as Peeta had done – and the downpour of blood that rained from the skies.

Beetee is in terrible shape, having received an untreated knife in the back during the Bloodbath, and Wiress is out of her mind from the horrors of the Arena, pacing on the beach and murmuring in repetition, "Tick, tock. Tick, tock."

It's apparent that Johanna's heard enough of this in the past two days, for she snaps in interruption, "Yeah, we know. Tick, tock. Nuts is in shock." When Wiress bumps into her, she shoves her in exasperation.

She may have been made for rebellion, but she certainly wasn't made for teamwork.

Katniss, who isn't at all accustomed to Johanna's harshness, jumps to the older woman's defence. "Lay off her," she snaps.

"Woops," Finnick mutters under his breath, for he knows Johanna doesn't take kindly to commands.

"Lay off her?" she hisses, approaching Katniss with a menacing glare. Before the Girl on Fire has time to draw a bow or even duck, Johanna's palm connects with her cheek. A fresh, stinging slap.

Finnick reacts quickly to this, and as Johanna begins to ream out the girl from 12 they all took an oath to protect, he throws her over shoulder and carries her into the water. She pounds at his back and thrashes in his arms, but he's taller and stronger and can easily dunk her underwater while she screams obscenities every time she draws breath.

With all he's been through since diving off that platform, he'll be damned if Johanna Mason destroys the trust he's built with the tributes from 12 in mere seconds by shooting off her fire-spitting tongue.

Unaffected by Johanna's crude insults, Katniss moves with the rest of them further onto the beach to tend to Beetee. Finnick continues to dunk the raging Johanna until all she can do when surfacing is gasp for breath.

He holds her above water, testing her as she gasps and blinks, and finally she splutters, "You fucking—"

He dunks her again.

She coughs out water this time, but can't help finishing, "—asshole."

He goes for one last dunk when she shouts, "No!"

"You done?" he asks her, grinning in amusement.

"Done yelling at _her_," Johanna spits. "What does it matter if I tear into you?"

He chuckles. "That's true."

While he relaxes his grip on her, her hands find his shoulders and she latches on. He frowns, wondering if this is her idea of a hug, but then as she continues to pant heavily he realizes that they are far enough into the lake that her feet can't touch the sandy bottom. From the fear in her eyes at the beginning of the Games, he remembers that she can't swim.

"Take me to the beach," she orders.

He wraps his arms around her waist, whispering into her ear out of reach of the cameras, "Only if you promise not to touch her again."

"I didn't hurt her," Johanna hisses back. "She doesn't know what I've been through for her. It was just a little slap to remind her to keep her mouth shut—"

Finnick dangles her head close to the water again. Johanna shuts her eyes and holds her breath, but he does not push her under. After a moment, one of her eyes opens.

"Fine," she sighs, and he allows her to lock her legs tightly around his waist and climb onto his back, where she feels less subjected to random dunkings.

He begins to swim with the feisty tribute from 7 on his back. "You look hideous, by the way," she remarks as he swims.

He'd forgotten about the ointment on his face to heal the oozing blisters and scratches. Of course Johanna wouldn't let a physical flaw go unnoticed. When the water is to his hips, she lets her legs fall to the ground.

"Johanna?"

"What?" she asks, wringing out her cropped brown tresses.

He smiles. "I'm really glad to see you."

She steps ahead of him and makes it quite clear that she's mad at him, but before doing so, he sees her eyes flicker in his direction, caught off guard. As he follows her to the others, he's sure he hears her mutter, "Thanks."

* * *

><p>So the Arena is a clock. Wiress was onto something. If he didn't believe her before, he does now, as the spokes begin to whirl and the land seems to divide around the Cornucopia. Of course, it doesn't matter much anymore – Wiress is dead.<p>

Her crude death at the hands of the Careers would affect Beetee the most, but Finnick is too busy scooping his body out of the water that he doesn't ask him how it feels. Finnick lost his own district partner not long ago and took Enobaria's blade in his thigh to defend the teenagers, so he thinks that he and Beetee are on the same sort of level.

Johanna's shouting again, and when he has Beetee on land, Finnick turns to see why. While the rest of them are catching their breath on shore and mulling over the sudden deaths of Wiress, Cashmere and Gloss, Katniss has taken to the water again, swimming to Wiress' lifeless corpse afloat.

At first, like Johanna, he wonders if she's gone mad. But then he sees the glint of gold wire in Wiress' hands and knows exactly what she's up to.

"Johanna," he says, shaking his head when she looks at him. "It's fine. Look."

She does, and raises a questioning eyebrow.

"She gets it," Finnick says under his breath, a ghost of a smile gracing his face. "She knows we're helping."

It's like taming a wild animal, he thinks, and just as rewarding. From the look on Johanna's face, he can tell she's suppressing another biting comment.

He nudges her in the side to keep her mouth shut. She nudges him back, harder.

He sighs. Somehow, keeping the mockingjay alive has become less of a chore than maintaining the hot-tempered Johanna.

* * *

><p>Finnick is pleased when Katniss agrees to accompany him to tap a tree for water. No words are exchanged as they wander into the jungle in search of the right tree and he begins to dig while she keeps guard. That's okay with him. It's the teamwork that builds her trust in him, and he's going to need that trust more than ever as they near the moment of the rescue. Finnick isn't quite certain how it's all going to work, yet, but he senses that Johanna and Beetee have been given very specific instructions and tasks before being sent into the Arena.<p>

For someone who's supposed to be keeping watch, Katniss seems unusually removed from reality, and he calls her to attention by asking for the spile. She hands it over and he begins to twist it into the tree. He has it halfway in place when a piercing scream echoes through the jungle. He snaps his head up to see that Katniss is already on high alert. The change in her expression is instantaneous, and before he can ask her who she thinks the high-pitched scream belongs to, she takes off.

"What?" he asks to himself. Water begins to drip from the spout of the spile, but allowing Katniss to venture senselessly through the jungle is out of the question. He can't let her out of his sight.

"Katniss!" he yells, leaving the spile in the tree and breaking into a run. He follows her shouts – _Prim! Prim!_ – and hopes the Careers are nowhere near to hear her. In the flurry, he left his own weapons back at the tree.

Prim. He knows it's not another tribute, and he wonders if this the name of the sister Katniss left behind. It must be. Other than Peeta, he's not sure she cares for much else.

But if those screams belonged to her, then where is she?

He crashes into a clearing where Katniss has succeeded in locating the source of the scream. A bird lies dead at her feet. Finnick's eyes dart from Katniss, to the bow in her hand, to the bird.

There comes another scream. It's further in the distance, different from the first in tone – not as high-pitched, but even more frantic.

And it only takes a breath for Finnick to realize who it belongs to.

His head whips around, panic rising in his chest, and this time, it is Katniss who calls his name and he who takes off at a run.

_Annie. _The mere name running through his mind sends a stabbing pain in his chest, for it's taken every ounce of strength not to think of her in the Arena. And now she's here, and he's sure he hears her calling his name…

What have they done to her? Fear grips his every muscle as he sprints through the jungle toward the shrieking. No, no. It can't be. Have they taken her? Did Fletcher fail to protect her? He wouldn't have. He promised not to let them take her. Did they kill him first?

It's Annie's voice; he knows it. And when he gets within range of the sound, he frantically circles the tree in which the jabberjays sit, their sweet voices morphing into bloodcurdling shrieks.

Finnick knows about jabberjays. They do not create; they can only imitate. So where did they get those screams?

"Annie!" he shouts up at them, trying to find a branch to climb. Their beady eyes stare down, taunting him. "Annie!"

Then the birds lay dead at his feet, and Katniss is hopping down from a nearby tree, bow in hand.

_It's not enough_, he thinks as he picks up the bird. Killing the birds won't stop her from screaming.

They stand, horrified, for a few quiet moments as they images of their loved ones in the hands in the Capitol flood their minds. They've done it – unhinged him again. He'll never push Annie from his mind now. Her screams will ring in his ears until the very end.

Another scream finds them then. A male voice that Finnick is relieved not to recognize – but Katniss does. It's written all over her face.

So he begins to drag her away, assuring her it's just the birds, there's nothing they can do by chasing them. After a few moments, she seems to agree with him despite the torn expression on her face, and they run downhill toward the beach. They run and run and run, and when they see Johanna and Peeta just up ahead, Finnick only has a brief moment to wonder why they didn't come after them when he runs smack into an invisible wall.

An invisible wall? This is just another hand on the clock, then. And until the hour is up, he and Katniss will be separated from the others.

The force of the impact sends his head snapping back, and when he rights himself, he lifts a hand to his nose and brings it away covered in blood. The pain is real and brings a tear to his eye, but it's not distracting enough when the birds descend in nearby trees. He watches them with dilated pupils, knowing in an instant what's about to happen.

They begin to scream.

He's already worked it out, knowing they'll be driven to insanity before the hour is up. Katniss tries to take out the birds, but the more she kills, the more that appear. With his nose gushing blood, Finnick simply gives up, curling his knees to his chest against the invisible wall and covering his head with his hands in a vain attempt to muffle the sounds.

_Annie. Annie. Oh, Annie, I'm sorry_…

* * *

><p>Later, once the invisible wall has receded and Finnick and Katniss rejoin the group, she joins him again at the shore where he's woven another basket for water and crafted a net for fishing. He stands with the water up to his knees and waits for the fish to come and Katniss sits just a few feet away, happy with the mindless activity of cleaning his catches.<p>

The sun sets, rendering fishing useless, so he takes a seat next to Katniss and helps her with the cleaning. He sniffles every few minutes, scrunching his nose and blinking – he's washed away the dried blood but the dull ache still remains.

"Katniss?" he asks after a long silence.

She pauses. He won't go on if she doesn't want him to.

"Yeah?" she finally responds.

"Do you think there's someplace we go when we die?"

She stiffens again, holding a beheaded fish in her hand as she glances at him. "What do you mean?"

"Annie thinks there is," he says, though the name probably means little to her. "She thinks there's more than just blackness. Nothingness. That there could be a whole life after death… that it could be perfect and safe, like dreaming."

He shouldn't be talking about this, not in the Arena, not in front of the cameras. But he just needs an answer. Any answer.

"That sounds nice," Katniss muses, her tone gentle. "I haven't thought about it much, I guess. Do you believe in nothingness?"

He shrugs. "The worse things get, the more likely it seems." The sun has almost vanished and he catches her eye with a half-smile. "But it would be a nice surprise. If there was more than nothing, I mean."

Katniss returns the smile with a shy one of her own. Quietly, she replies, "It doesn't seem like too much to hope for."

Johanna demands her dinner, so they pick up their baskets and head back to the beach. Finnick trails behind Katniss, smiling to himself. Something more than nothing. Maybe she's right – maybe it's not too much to believe in after all.

* * *

><p>He can't stop the nightmares that night as they tear through his walls and suffocate him. He wakes with a bolt of lightning hitting the Arena, and he's sure he won't sleep again. He offers to keep watch until morning so that he can be alone with the torturous images of his Annie. So that he can plead for her forgiveness in the dark silence.<p>

Another set of rolls is delivered by parachute in the early morning, same as the evening before: twenty-four rolls from District 3. Finnick counts them possessively and then counts them again, just to make sure. District 3 – the third day. Twenty-four rolls – midnight. Katniss watches him strangely but seems to forget about it as soon as he divides them equally and shares them with her and the others.

It's Beetee who begins to plan their attack on Brutus and Enobaria, the two remaining Careers from 2, by suggesting a complex scientific orchestration involving his coil of wire and a lightning bolt. Finnick isn't entirely sure he understands, but he trusts that this is what Beetee has been instructed to do, as the plan will unfold at midnight on the third day. He and Johanna exchange a glance, and when she nods in affirmation, he agrees to the plan.

Finnick helps Beetee while the others gather supplies and prepare, and as if they needed any more confirmation, there is another bread delivery in the afternoon. Twenty-four rolls from District 3. Yes, it will happen tonight, and Finnick is anxious beyond belief. So much can go wrong. There are still two Careers on the hunt for Katniss and Peeta and the rest of them, and they're a piddly problem compared to Snow and the eyes of the Capitol.

Night falls. Finnick jitters with excitement and fear when Beetee suggests that Johanna and Katniss unravel the coil of wire through the jungle and back to the beach. He senses that Johanna has a task to complete, too, and when she looks to him before departing with Katniss, he nods with a gulp. He's done what he can – now he must leave Katniss safely in her hands, because he doesn't know if he'll make it out alive.

Peeta is restless as they prepare the tree, always glancing over his shoulder and remarking on the length of their journey; that he hopes they'll make it back in time. Those musings soon turn into, "They should be back by now," and "I should have gone with them."

It worries Finnick, too, but they must not be distracted. Beetee, he realizes, is not really trying to kill the other tributes. It's made clear to him the more he helps with the preparations on the tree. No – Beetee is going to blow up the Arena.

It terrifies him at first. It doesn't become any less terrifying as his shaky fingers perform whatever duties Beetee asks of him, but Beetee is steady and sure, and Finnick chooses to keep calm. He is prepared for death. Beetee is prepared to complete his task. All they can do is trust that Katniss will be safely removed from the Arena before it implodes.

When he looks over his shoulder to ask Peeta for help, he realizes that the boy is gone.

"He went after her," Beetee says, eyes on the wire.

Finnick takes a few steps across the jungle floor before swallowing his instinct and convincing himself it's no use now. Just like Katniss, he protected the boy as best he could. In a few minutes, he'll probably be dead whether Finnick fetches him or not.

But he can't. He can't stand idly by.

"I'll be back!" he shouts to Beetee, and then he breaks into a run, downhill to the beach. He knows if he stays on the path, he'll find who he's looking for. He shouts their names over and over – _Katniss! Johanna!_ – not caring who hears him. If Brutus is hot on his trail, he'll welcome the challenge.

He makes it more than halfway to the beach and then turns around at the sound of a cannon. He leaps up the hills, desperately hoping the cannon isn't for one of his own.

When he makes it back to the tree, the fanged tribute from 2 is there, and her knife has found Beetee. Where did Enobaria come from? Why isn't Brutus with her? Has he found Katniss? Johanna? The notion angers him so that he breaks into a blind run after Enobaria, trident clutched at his side. He'll kill her. Kill her for hurting Beetee; for ruining everything.

The storm has arrived. Lightning is threatening to strike, and it would be any moment now if Beetee was still alive, if the plan were to come to fruition. He doesn't know if that's possible. Was the cannon Johanna's? Was it for Katniss? And when will Beetee's cannon ring?

All he can do is keep chasing her, the demon from 2, in hopes that he'll either kill her or distract her from killing anyone else.

They come full circle. They race behind the wired tree. Finnick is close now; hot on her heels. With his trident at the ready, he steadies it in his hands. One thrust and it's done.

But he doesn't get the chance. Before he can strike, he's knocked off his feet. There's an explosion of light. A thunderous noise that deafens him. And when he hits the ground to see the sky raining down on him, all he can think are two triumphant words:

_It happened_.

* * *

><p><strong>So, I didn't get to update last week as I suspected. I'm hanging my head in shame. But I want to thank you guys for being so patient! This story will be coming to a close in just a few chapters, and I anticipate having it completed by the end of June at the very LATEST. If I'm able to update every Sunday in May (which has proven difficult with my workload so far, but it's what I aim for!), then it'll be finished by mid-June, tops. <strong>

**I hope you are all experiencing gorgeous weather this Mother's Day and I promise to reply to all reviews this evening! Thank you again :)**


	19. sways and ties

**Chapter 19:** _75__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

His head throbs something painful when he comes to, and the first thought Finnick has is: _dead_. They are all dead. _He_ is dead. But Katniss Everdeen, is she dead? Will he ever know if he failed or succeeded in his mission?

Somehow, with the jitters and random twitches in his limbs and the ever-present ache in his skull, he feels that it's not quite over yet. With eyes open – just a crack, as the artificial light is stinging – he sees grey metal above, on the walls and ceiling. He is not in the Arena anymore.

It takes a few minutes more before he figures out that he has the ability to move. He starts with his fingers, stiff and cold. He holds out his arms when he has the strength, noting that he's wearing only a thin hospital gown. And then, to understand what is creating that dull beeping sound across the room, he moves his neck. His eyes scan the metal walls until they come to rest on a figure out cold on a bed. A number of machines surround the bed, and the beeping comes from them.

_Beetee_. Beetee is here. And the beeping must mean that he is alive.

It's difficult to remember what happened the last few moments he was conscious, but Finnick remembers that Enobaria found Beetee and stabbed him to distract him from his mission to blow up the Arena.

Then who _did_ blow up the Arena? Certainly not Finnick, whose fury got the best of him and who chased Enobaria with the intention of murder instead of caring for the old man or finishing what Beetee had sworn to do.

No, in his final moments, all Finnick had done was chase. No help to anyone, really, and even as the sky rained down and he thought, _I need to find Johanna_, it was too late – he couldn't move. If he had done more, maybe they would all be dead. A peaceful kind of dead, not this metal-dome limbo.

In front of Beetee lies a smaller figure, her olive skin contrasting the stark white hospital gown. With her long, dark hair swept away in a braid, Finnick knows in an instant who she is.

Katniss.

Why is she here with them? Why isn't she moving? Where are they? Why didn't they save her?

He is frantically trying to sit up, to rise from his own hard bed to investigate when a stringy-haired, pot-bellied figure appears over him and lightly places a hand on his chest, forcing him back down.

"Katniss," he croaks helplessly, but the word doesn't come out the way he expected.

Either way, Haymitch seems to understand. He nods knowingly. "She's here. She's safe."

He opens his mouth again, but this time, he's too dry to say anything at all.

"I'll help you up," Haymitch offers. Finnick attempts to shake his head, but his movements are languid and painful. "You _are_ alive," Haymitch says softly. "The doctors said you might be confused about that."

Haymitch puts an arm around Finnick's shoulder and heavily supports his weight as he helps him stand. Finnick's first intention is to check on Katniss and Beetee, to ensure that they are, in fact, alive. A doctor enters the wing and supports Finnick's other shoulder, leading him away from his allies. He tries to protest.

"They'll come to," Haymitch assures him. "For now, they need to rest."

He doesn't recognize this place – these grey, lifeless hallways and windowless walls. Are they in the Capitol? It's the only place he's ever met with other victors other than on Victory Tours. It doesn't make sense to be anywhere else.

But if they are in the Capitol, then death is near. And it is sure to be agonizing.

It's the first thing he asks when they sit him down at a table and place a straw at his lips. He gulps down the cool water and nearly sighs at the relief it provides his throat, but also notices that his head begins to feel better. Is this just water, or is it laced with some sort of medicine?

"Where are we?"

Just then, Plutarch Heavensbee enters the quarters with a broad smile. Behind him trails a woman Finnick recognizes only from behind a screen – it's Fulvia Cardew, his loyal assistant.

"Finnick, my boy," Heavensbee says as if they're jolly old friends. "It's good to see you, _so_ good to see you."

Another man enters, saying nothing but placing a bowl of broth and some rolls in front of Finnick.

"Where are we?" Finnick repeats.

"Eat," Fulvia instructs.

He's frustrated now, and makes a move to stand up. Haymitch puts a hand on his shoulder and he's too weak to fight it; so he plunks back down. Haymitch then strides across the room and pulls the curtains aside.

So there _are_ windows here. Daylight streams in, and beyond the glass, there is forest as far as the eye can see. They're in the air, floating so smoothly he can't feel it at all. A hovercraft.

"We," Heavensbee says with a twinkle of delight in his eye, "are on our way to District 13."

Finnick pauses. The last time he checked, there were only twelve districts…

"Oh, it exists," Heavensbee affirms with a nod, sensing his next question. "It very much exists."

While the existence of 13 is explained to him, detailing its retraction underground during the Dark Days and its survival ever since, Finnick can barely concentrate. 13 exists. He is going to 13. With Beetee and Katniss and Haymitch and…

"Johanna," he says suddenly, interrupting Heavensbee's history lesson.

The round man stops mid-sentence, exchanging a glance with Haymitch.

"Finnick," says the mentor, his tone oddly gentle, "when the force field was destroyed in the Arena, we only had a few seconds to act. There were only so many of you we could grab."

He frowns. "Did she die?"

Haymitch shakes his head. "It wasn't just our hovercraft there. The Capitol had one, too."

Realization sinks in. The heat from the broth causes him to sweat. "She's with them," he says quietly, not believing it himself. _Them_. The Capitol. They took her. Suddenly alert and anxious, his eyes dart to Haymitch. "What about—"

"The only ones we had time to lift were you, Beetee and Katniss," Haymitch confirms, and Finnick sees the pain in his eyes. "Johanna we had to leave behind. Along with Enobaria. And… Peeta."

His eyes widen. "They're all with them? In the Capitol?"

Pained, Haymitch nods.

_They're dead_, Finnick thinks automatically. Or they're not, but they will be soon. Poor Peeta. And Johanna… he can't bear it.

But there's someone else on his mind. Someone he can't force himself to forget about any longer, because he doesn't have the strength.

"The districts are in full-scale rebellion. Communications are down in 7, 10, and 12. But 11 has control of transportation now, so there's at least a hope of getting them some food out," says Heavensbee, as if this newsflash is helpful to his broken heart.

"I need to go back," Finnick says, his voice cracking with emotion. "Annie… I need to get to her. Will you take me to 4?"

"No, I'm sorry. There's no way I can get you to 4. But I've given special orders for her retrieval if possible."

Finnick begins to shake his head. It's not good enough. How dare this man decide it's not important enough?

"It's the best I can do, Finnick," Heavensbee adds, taking note of his despair.

District 4 in rebellion. Fletcher. The girls. If Annie's there, she's alone and afraid. If she's not…

Suddenly, Finnick knows that Annie is not in District 4. The moment the rebels lifted him from the Arena alive was the moment his agreement with Snow for Annie's safety and protection ended.

She's in the custody of the Capitol.

He looks around the room, powerless for answers. Oh, the things they can do to her to break him… he's overwhelmed with nausea.

"Then I want you to kill me," he says, wrought with anguish and, somewhere deep within him, conviction. "It's the only way to keep her safe."

Haymitch dismisses this right away. "Don't be stupid. That's the worst thing you could do. Get her killed for sure. As long as _you're_ alive, they'll keep _her_ alive for bait."

Haymitch knows, too – like a true victor, he knows the way Snow operates.

Before he can argue, the door flies open and in stumbles Katniss, her eyes wild. When she sees the open window and the scene before her – a bedraggled Finnick sitting limply on a chair surrounded by Haymitch and the two from the Capitol – she stops herself from what may have been an attack.

They sit her down beside him at the table, and while they force Finnick to eat and try to do the same to Katniss, Haymitch tells her everything. For the first time, she learns of the conspiracy. The alliance in the Arena. How it all turned out, and where they are headed now, with Johanna, Enobaria and Peeta left far, far behind in merciless hands.

Katniss handles everything with remarkable understanding and neutrality, simply nodding at key points to confirm she is still paying attention. But it's the last bit that breaks her. To know that Peeta is not here – that he is in the hands of the people who want her dead – sends her flying over the edge, and she lashes out at Haymitch by scraping her nails down his face.

Finnick can't blame her for her outburst, even though he is the one who grabs her, drags her away from Haymitch and helps to strap her down. He is the one with whom she locks eyes before the needle plunges into her arm and the sedation pulls her under.

And he is the one she finds next to her in his own hospital bed when she wakes. He has the same thoughts; the same anger. Why were they saved, but not the ones they loved? Why should a person's usefulness in a dreadful war determine their right to life?

He'd trade places with Peeta. He really would. No matter what they'd do to him in the Capitol, at least he would have the chance to see Annie one last time. At least they could die together.

And Peeta and Katniss could_ live_ together, just as they were meant to do.

"Katniss," Finnick whispers, his throat choked with tears. She does not look at him, but her eyes stare at the ceiling and he knows she hears. "Katniss, I'm sorry. I wanted to go back for him and Johanna, but I couldn't move."

Just the mention of Johanna's name grips him with fear. She knew too much. Was too involved in the conspiracy. And her tongue is too fiery for her own good. Johanna made sure there was no one left for her to love, that way they could never hold anything against her – all they can do is kill her very slowly, very painfully.

The thought paralyzes him, and as he lies there, he wonders if he's collapsed a lung just from the involuntary mental images of her bruised, beaten body hanging within an inch of its life.

"It's better for him than Johanna," Finnick manages to continue, speaking more to himself than to Katniss. "They'll figure out he doesn't know anything pretty fast. And they won't kill him if they think they can use him against you."

Johanna won't be so lucky. She doesn't need to be kept alive to manipulate anyone.

"Like bait?" Katniss asks with dead eyes. "Like how they'll use Annie for bait, Finnick?"

He didn't expect a response. That she says it out loud – what everything is thinking, but no one will say – makes it all too real.

And then, shaking with loss and apology and regret and misery, he sobs openly into the pillow. He hasn't wept like this for years, and certainly not in front of a young girl in her own pool of despair. But he can't help it. He's terrified. Terrified that Annie is still alive, because what they will do to her is far worse than death.

"I wish she was dead," he admits to Katniss through tears. "I wish they were all dead and we were, too. It would be best."

Right then, he doesn't care what awaits them in death. It could be Annie's vision of a dream, or floating blankly through space, or fire and brimstone, or nothing at all. As long as it's not here. As long as it's not this place.

They all just need to get out.

* * *

><p>Following the Dark Days, the people from District 13 were pushed underground to survive and stayed there. It is completely cut off from the rest of Panem and, in many ways, the fresh air itself, and so everything it has is prized highly and nothing is wasted. Not paper, not food, not space. Not even people, Finnick soon learns. Everyone receives a daily "imprint" on their arm which details their hourly schedule, so that no minute of a day is ever spent unproductively.<p>

Being holed up in the hospital with nightmares of Annie and Johanna and, sometimes, Peeta, Finnick hasn't been imprinted yet. There's very little motivation to right his mindstate, with all the pleasant drugs that pull him peacefully out of consciousness and only the cramped, grey compartment that is assigned to him to look forward to. The idea of imprinting upset him, when he's coherent enough to think about it. He's been told what to do – or threatened to do what someone else wanted him to do – ever since he stepped out of the Arena alive at fourteen years old. Now that he's done as instructed and gotten the mockingjay out alive, he's rewarded with a list of daily duties?

This is not freedom. This is not victory.

He's sure it's the air, too, that's keeping him unwell. It's stuffy and stagnant and stale underground, with no flowing breeze or ocean salt. It's no place to live. No place to die, either, but he'd die all the same if given the chance.

He's not. No one is quite so merciful. Instead of death, they give him a small section of rope. Not quite long enough to tie a noose. He could slowly cut off the circulation in his fingers or sear his neck with rope burn, but as he has trouble staying awake for more than five or ten minutes, he doesn't bother.

Instead, he ties. Knots and unknots. Over and over until they have to treat his hands every morning and night for rope burn. It doesn't matter – he keeps knotting. It's the tiniest bit of a life he once had. Just a little piece of home.

In the Capitol, he's sure they're far less accommodating. He doubts that Annie has a rope. But perhaps she has a friend, which is more than he can say for himself.

_Take care of her, Johanna_, he pleads on repeat in his mind. But even the pleas are filled with empty despair.

Johanna, wherever she is, no doubt has bigger problems to worry about.

* * *

><p>What was it all for, if it's all come to this? He in one horrible place, Annie somewhere worse, and almost every district at war? This is a question that often plagues his mind, even with the sweet release of the drugs. What was the bargaining point, again? How had they convinced him to do this?<p>

They didn't. He barely needed convincing at all, if he remembers correctly. And they never promised him anything. Not freedom, not happiness. Not even life.

All they'd wanted was their mockingjay, and all he'd needed was a cause to believe in.

Almost never is he allowed to leave the medical unit, so when Mrs. Everdeen leads him along with a group of patients to the Collective, easily the largest room in the underground, he's intrigued and a bit dazed. There's to be an assembly there, and Finnick's sure someone has told him the topic of the day, but he must not have been listening.

They never force him to give up his rope, and he's grateful for that as he stands in the assembly hall gazing at the enormity of the room and the gigantic crowd filtering in. Everyone in the district must be here, and yet he recognizes so few faces. Every body is clothed in grey. Amidst this colourless sea, it's difficult to remember the exact shade of the calm ocean on a clear, sunny day.

"Finnick! How are you doing?"

Someone calls him to attention and, bewildered, he looks around and down to a small figure. With the dark hair and braid, he recognizes her instantly and is glad for the familiarity.

"Katniss," he says, finding her hand and gripping it. They poke and probe at him all the time, but no one really touches him anymore – the human contact, he finds, has been sorely missed. Though she's surprised by his overwhelming need for contact, she doesn't pull away. She was angry with him the last time they saw each other. She was angry with everyone, really. Today, her grey eyes are laced with sympathy. He hates it, but he needs her to answer a question.

"Why are we meeting here?"

Katniss sighs, leaving her hand in his. And with that, she says the most comforting words he's heard since the last time he spoke with Annie: "I told Coin I'd be her Mockingjay."

_Mockingjay_.

This is why he's here, he faintly remembers. Why he would have given his life and left Annie without him. Because Katniss is the mockingjay, the Girl on Fire, and she will burn the Capitol.

But she doesn't look very convincing. In fact, she looks entirely reluctant, and with that, he feels his shoulders slumping and the fading of whatever hope he had left.

Katniss Everdeen. The mockingjay. The lynchpin of the rebellion. Never once before, during, or after the rebellion did anyone ask her if she_ wanted_ to be. By the look on her face, it's clear that someone should have thought to do that.

What have they done?

* * *

><p>The hospital staff begins to allow him out for excursions – never to the "real" outside, like he begs, but around and about the underground. He's harmless to anyone but himself, they say, and they're about right. His excursions are never busy enough, and he always ends up distracted by thoughts of Annie, or Johanna, or Calix, or anyone who died in the Games. Even Cashmere and Gloss he would welcome now, for even if they hated him, they were at least familiar. They understood each other, in a strange way. Had suffered the same fate.<p>

Happiness is a relative term these days, but he's mildly content when they allow him to join the film crew on the set one day while giving Katniss her first task as mockingjay: filming rebel material. Finnick is amused for the first little bit, watching Katniss stand around taking cues with no real ideas of what she should be doing in front of the camera. This is where Peeta may have come in handy, for Katniss is no actress. She's not even good at taking instruction. She's too stubborn and defiant, even to those who are on her side.

She glares at Finnick for chuckling at her, but he secretly admires her from the sidelines. When he was her age – seventeen – he was tainted and broken into submission.

Though the rebel propos intrigues him, his mind wanders as always, just like it used to after the first Games – but worse, because Annie's not here to call him back.

He's jolted to life again minutes or hours later, when the Girl on Fire, in all her fiery glory, yells into the camera, "People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!"

He can't muster the humour to chuckle this time – he just feels hopeless. Haymitch, however, laughs derisively from across the studio, arms folded across his chest.

"And that, my friends, is how a revolution dies," he remarks.

Suddenly, Finnick is salivating, alert and craving a little white pill. They've placed so much hope in their mockingjay. So much effort. If she fails to inspire, the rebellion is lost.

Everything is lost, and Finnick doesn't want to be conscious when it goes.

* * *

><p>There's to be a special mission to District 8, where an uprising is in full swing. The film crews are going along with Haymitch, Katniss, and Gale, Katniss' hunting partner from District 12, who strikes Finnick as one of the most intense and serious people he has ever known – and he has known Fletcher. It's what years of living in hunger with a family to feed can do to you, he suspects, so he can't really blame Gale for his demeanour. Still, he watches him around Katniss and can't help but raise a disapproving brow. It's clear that the pair have buried feelings for one another, and both seem to be fighting it – viciously. So much so that it seems they take it out on one another.<p>

Sometimes he almost feels that he should intervene. For Peeta, in the hands of the devil, whose only happy thought might just be Katniss Everdeen.

But he doesn't. He stays out of it, because he knows with certainty that no distraction or intervention or person can force someone to fall in or out of love.

He doesn't care much about it, anyway, when Boggs, District 13's right-hand man, tells him he can't go along on the mission to 8. He's furious at this disallowance. If anyone wants an uprising, it's him. If anyone wants to destroy Snow, it's him. Why rescue him from the Arena to lock him in a hospital wing underground while his beloved cries for his comfort from behind Capitol walls?

Katniss convinces him to visit Beetee in the Weaponry unit, instead, and he goes because he can't bear to see them leave without him and because Beetee is a familiar face, no matter if he likes Finnick or not.

After throwing on some clothes – slate grey, like everything in this hole of a district – he marches down to Special Weaponry, scowling all the way. His bitter frown is replaced by intrigue and wonder when Beetee places in his outstretched hands a golden trident.

"What's it do?" Finnick asks, wary of using it right away as it seems to be more than just a slab of gold.

Wheeling about in his chair, Beetee shows him some of the special features, like how pressing a button on the matching cuff will return it to him after it's been thrown, and how the prongs can extend into even sharper, deadlier blades.

"And this is for me?" Finnick asks with raised brows.

Beetee nods. "You and you alone. It's voice activated, just like the bow for Katniss."

He tests the weight of it in his hands, thoroughly impressed. With a doleful expression, he asks, "You think they'll ever let me use it?"

"Certainly," Beetee says. "Katniss Everdeen isn't their only mockingjay."

_Wear it if you can be it_. That was the note attached to the gold bangle when he found it in the sand. From the beginning, they planned for Finnick to be a rebel leader, too.

"Then why am I here when she's making waves in 8?"

Beetee eyes him over the rims of his glasses. "You're not helping anyone by losing yourself," he says calmly. "They didn't pick up the three of us by chance. It helped that we were close together in the Arena once the force field collapsed, but they could have taken the boy in our place if they thought they'd need him. They could have picked up Johanna, but they didn't. They needed _us_. Katniss, the mockingjay. Beetee, the technology specialist. And you, Finnick. Because no one has more reason to fight for change than you. No one is more of a soldier."

Another scowl wipes away his wonder and awe. He thrusts the trident into Beetee's hands. "I don't care," he says. "I didn't ask to live. I only said I would protect her."

"And how can you, when she's in the middle of a war zone and you're stuck here?"

Beetee's poignant question causes him to turn on his heels. He narrows his eyes. "She's out of the Arena alive, isn't she?"

"But don't you see? We're still in the Arena."

His gentle tone causes Finnick to tilt his head quizzically.

"The Games are still on," Beetee continues. "They'll go on until there's a winner. Us, or Snow."

He opens his mouth to argue, but he can't. It's true: if the rebellion is squashed, next year's Games will be truly unforgettable, if any of the rebels are still alive to participate in it.

The feeble man holds out the golden trident again. "At least this way, you'll know you tried."

Finnick laughs coldly. "Tried? You think all this is for lack of _trying_?"

"You know Johanna better than I do. What would she say to you now, left behind on a mission you should have been spearheading?"

"Don't," Finnick snaps, gritting his teeth. He may be elderly, but Finnick will still strangle him if he dares mention Johanna again.

He doesn't stand a chance against an on-edge Finnick Odair, but Beetee's breathing doesn't shallow in the slightest. "The one you love," he says, "she's not gone, you know. I'm certain of it. She's there, in the Capitol, alive. As long as there's life, there's hope."

He presses a button on the arm of his chair, wheeling it around and away. Finnick watches him go, taking the trident with him. Beetee pauses in the doorway to another unit of the Weapons Department, looking over his shoulder.

"By the way," he says, "thank you for your help in the Arena. That knife in the back would have killed me at the Cornucopia, and Enobaria would have done so again at the bitter end. First it was Johanna who saved me, and then it was you." He pauses, mulling over his words. "You gave me life, and I don't intend to waste it."

* * *

><p><strong>Man, this month is <em>killing<em> me. May, why you gotta suck? It's no consolation that the weather is beautiful, either, because I sit inside at a desk staring at a screen and talking on the phone all day at work. Sigh.**

**But enough of my Debbie Downer-ness. All I wanted to say is that months such as this are like a kick-in-the-face reminder of why I write. And if I can share that with other people and know that they are getting something out of it, too, then even the worst month isn't a write-off.**

**So thanks for being awesome, all you readers, you. It's more appreciated than you know, especially in times where I can't seem to get my act together.**

**Catch ya next Sunday!**


	20. those angel's eyes

**Chapter 20:** _75__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

The "We Remember" propos is meant to be a distraction for Finnick, a way to get him out of the hospital wing and thinking about something other than Annie. It was Fulvia Cardew's idea to have him narrate short segments on several of the more popular tributes who perished in the Quarter Quell, and he likes it. As he, Beetee and Haymitch are really the only ones who knew them personally, Finnick provides a lot of input to the scripts and insists on several takes of the narrations to ensure he's done justice to the fallen. The idea is to pick up any stragglers in the rebellion, and everyone – even Beetee – is optimistic about the segments.

It takes him out of the hospital wing and allows him to creatively release his energy and emotions, but Finnick can't help but wonder if the dead would have wanted this. His mind is muddled and blurred, but from what he remembers, he was never a favourite amongst the mentors.

He's not a favourite amongst the ones in District 13, either – at least, he doesn't think so. He operates under the impression that no one is quite fond of him. If they were, they would sneak him some morphling when he pleaded. They would talk to him rather than send him pitying glances. They would visit him rather than leave him alone in the stark white hospital. They might even give him a longer rope. Long enough for a noose.

Instead, all they give him is trays of food, usually canned or frozen before serving, portioned to the exact amount required for a man of his age, weight, activity level and body type. It tastes just as bleak as it looks, but he eats it for something to do.

And one night, after filming a propo for Seeder from 11 which Katniss watched from the sidelines, he sneaks out of his quarters and joins her in her compartment. They're airing a segment tonight about the mission to District 8, which he still looks back on with bitterness for not being permitted to attend.

As the bombs rain down on the screen, he pushes away his dinner tray, no longer hungry. Katniss turns her head away, unable to watch it all for the second time.

"People should know that happened. And now they do," he says, but it doesn't seem enough.

Katniss shakes her head. "I already hate this."

"What?"

She tugs on her own braid, playing with the ends. "Being the mockingjay."

A silence hangs over them. Finnick lowers his eyes to his forgotten meal, thoughtful and quiet.

"They want to paint me as brave," she continues, letting her head loll back against the wall. "Katniss Everdeen, Girl on Fire, Mockingjay, the symbol of the revolution. But I'm not brave. I'm not on fire. I'm only doing this because I'm terrified."

Finnick sighs, crossing his ankles and turning his head toward her. "Terrified of losing everyone."

She nods.

"You love too much," he remarks. "Too fiercely. That's your problem." When she meets his gaze, he offers a grim smile. "That's what Johanna would say."

A slight frown knits together her brows. "And what would you say?"

He pauses, letting his eyes travel the white walls. "Sometimes I agree with her," he says, his voice distant. "This place is cancerous to me. The more I stay here, the more I'm convinced she's right. Love can't be good if it brings so much pain. It can only be a sickness."

As he says it, Peeta's image materializes onscreen. Katniss gasps as they both realize that Beetee's programming has cut out briefly. The Capitol is retaliating.

The blond boy looks horrible. Tired, dishevelled, small and frail. His appearance is startling to Finnick, who can only imagine how traumatizing it must be for Katniss. She's frozen beside him, stiff and cold, as if she's staring into the face of death.

Peeta delivers a message to Katniss onscreen, claiming she's been turned into a weapon by the rebels, that they'll use her to spurn a war that will ravage the nation. He begs her to call it to an end. Warns her that all may not be what it seems. And then he's cut; the broadcast at an end.

Finnick reacts quickly, shutting off the television and spinning around to grab Katniss by the shoulders and demand her attention. "We didn't see it."

"What?" she asks, dazed and frightened.

"We didn't see Peeta. Only the propo on 8. Then we turned the set off because the images upset you. Got it?"

Katniss is bewildered from head to foot, and that's how Finnick knows that Peeta got through to her. His words are revolving in her mind and she's questioning what she stands for. If Heavensbee and Fulvia and President Coin know she doubts them, it will be a dangerous situation for her. For all of them. And he's sworn to protect her – even if it's against the very people with whom he made the oath.

He urges her to eat, and together they sink into a thoughtful silence

Katniss pushes her food around on her plate, and when she turns to him, her grey eyes are wide and wounded. She says despairingly to him, "If it's a sickness, I'm sick." Shaking her head, she repeats, "I'm sick."

He nods, the meaning of her words not lost on him. "I know," he murmurs, covering her hand with his. "I know, Katniss."

13 is not home, and 13 is no safety or comfort to him. But he has Katniss, he consoles himself. It's not much, especially because she's almost as broken as him, but he has her. And she has him, he reminds himself as her eyes fill with tears, her small body curling into itself on the bed. She has him until death.

* * *

><p>Filming the propo for Mags is so difficult for him that they knock him out afterward for a full day and night. When he finally comes to, Katniss is there, insisting that he dress quickly so that he can accompany her outside.<p>

"What do you mean, outside?" Finnick asks.

"I mean up. Aboveground. Where you can see the light of day."

Finnick frowns innocently. "We're not allowed up there."

Katniss places a hand on her hip, raising her eyebrows as if he should know better. "I made a deal with Coin," she says, referencing the president of 13.

"A deal?" he asks, suspicious.

With a groan, Katniss swings her braid behind her. "Do you want to come or not?"

He does, so he dons a pair of grey pants and an off-white shirt and follows Katniss wordlessly through the bland hallways, his eyes darting into every room they pass in fear that someone will spot them and send him back to the hospital.

Such paranoia is exhausting, but he can't help it. Beetee was right – they're still in the Arena, all of them, and one must constantly be alert.

Stepping out from the underground and onto the fresh earth is a surreal experience. The clean, crisp air fills his nostrils and the light of day blinds him, even though the sun is shrouded in clouds. A breeze drifts by, and Finnick inhales deeply, letting the air seep into his lungs and puff out his chest. It's quiet aboveground, for there's very little left on the surface in 13, but without the deafening hum of fans circulating the air or the steady beeps of machines in the hospital wing, Finnick is able to hear the chirping of birds, the rustling of grass, and the song of the wind.

"Game doesn't come this close to the exit, but it's not far. Just up past the fence, there's – are you okay?" Katniss asks, stopping in her tracks and eyeing him over her shoulder.

Tears have welled in his sea green eyes as he feels, for the first time since entering the Arena a second time, that he is human. At her question, he sniffles, blinks, and shakes his head to swallow the emotion.

"Yeah. Let's go," he says, urging her forward. He's determined not to give her the chance to decide he's too unstable for an afternoon out.

They hop a fence nearby and disappear into the woods. Finnick follows Katniss, breathing in the scent of pine and bark, moss and dirt. Katniss is at home here, but District 13 is a far cry from the sights and smells of District 4. Still, he's not about to complain. To be on earth is better than to be below it.

Katniss flinches every so often when he cracks a twig with his feet or walks unceremoniously through leaves. He's a hunter, just as she is, but his hunting days have taken place in the vast blue ocean.

"Sorry," he says with a shrug when she delivers him a pointed glare. "My steps are too heavy."

"Not_ that_ heavy," she tells him, her expression softening. Eyes downcast, she mutters, "You haven't tried to hunt with Peeta."

The mention of the blond-haired boy in custody of the Capitol hangs heavily over them, and Finnick is about to offer another apology when Katniss cuts him off.

"Let's take these off," she says, removing her communicator. She places it safely under a bush and waits for Finnick to do the same.

They're under strict orders to wear the communicators at all times, but Finnick doesn't hesitate to ditch his under the bush as well.

He snorts at the irony, remarking, "Johanna thought she was doing you a favour, tearing the tracker out of your arm in the Arena. They wouldn't be able to follow you. She thought she'd be setting you free."

Katniss watches him, wary of another one of his breakdowns. He doesn't feel one coming today. It's easier to talk about the ones he's lost in the open air. Not less painful – just easier.

"She did," says Katniss.

Finnick looks to the ground, sighing deeply. "We didn't think it would be this kind of free. We didn't tear the tracker from you so you could have another one put in."

Katniss is thoughtful as they begin to walk deeper into the brush. "You know," she says lightly, "for someone who spent so much of his life in the Capitol as a victor, you don't take to captivity very well."

He shrugs, holding aside a few branches and letting Katniss walk ahead. "They had me from the moment I was reaped at fourteen," he says. "My only two choices were to die fighting or to live in surrender. You want to fight back, but there's your family and friends to protect… in the end, it's just easier on your heart to hide. I spent all this time running from captivity. Not just for me, but for Annie. Now we're both prisoners, and not even in the same place. And it's… I can't bear it."

He chokes on the last words, but swallows back his tears. Katniss doesn't need his misery on top of her own.

Or maybe she does. The kind of love she may feel for Peeta isn't quite yet the love shared between Finnick and Annie, but it's some kind of love. Out of everyone, she's the only one who has an inkling of the shackles on his ankles and the devastating bricks weighing his shoulders down.

"Do you regret it?" she asks, her voice faint. It's an answer she must be afraid to hear. "Being part of the conspiracy in the Quarter Quell?"

Finnick thinks about it as they walk on, his mind revolving around several different – but equally horrifying – scenarios. "If I died in there, they wouldn't go after Annie," he points out. "But then where would you be?"

"Probably dead, too," she suggests without flinching. "In a place where none of this matters anymore."

Finnick always imagined the afterlife as a place of nothingness; simply a darkness, unchanging and still. The more he thinks about it, the more he imagines it as District 13. Dead or not, this is purgatory.

They don't speak again until they reach a tall fence, signalling the district border. He has a feeling that Katniss didn't really bring him out here to hunt, so he doesn't ask questions when she takes a seat on a rung of the fence and waits expectantly for him to do the same.

It's been a couple of days since Peeta's broadcast, and Finnick's been knocked out since then, but it seems that Katniss has been waiting for a moment to discuss it with him. She speaks quickly, eager to get everything out at once, for him to know all she can't say to anyone else.

"I haven't heard one word about it," Finnick assures her, though he's been unconscious for a good chunk of time since the broadcast. "No one's told you anything?"

Katniss shakes her head, worried.

"Not even Gale?" he tries. She looks doubtful, and he wonders again about their closeness – it's almost impossible that Gale wouldn't know about the broadcast, but how could he keep something like that from Katniss? How could he love her and hide something from her?

With a stab of regret, Finnick realizes that there are a lot of things he never shared with Annie. So many secrets that she will never know. He kept them from her to protect her, so isn't it fair to assume that Gale might have done the same?  
>Katniss still looks bleak, so he offers, "Maybe he's trying to find a time to tell you privately."<p>

"Maybe," she says, but she doesn't believe him.

Gale won't tell her, Finnick knows that for sure. He knows how desperate one can be to keep someone they love from hurting.

Another bout of silence washes over them, and in that time, Katniss shoots a buck that sneaks into view. It's not very large, but it's heavy enough that Finnick is sweating and panting by the time he drags it back to the entrance to the underground. Before they go down, Katniss hands him his communicator, which they picked up from the bush on their way back. She offers him a tight-lipped smile.

He sighs deeply, staring up at the clouds and sniffing the fresh air one last time. It's hard to say when he'll get to venture out again – he supposes it all depends on his mental state, which is shaky and unpredictable at best.

"Ready to go back?" she asks.

He chuckles without humour. "I'll never be ready," he replies softly. Her smile fades. He adds, "Thank you for today. I forgot about… it's just nice, to be outside for once."

She nods. "I get that."

She makes a move to climb down, but he grabs onto her wrist and begs her to stop.

"Katniss?" he asks. She raises her eyebrows in acknowledgement. "Do I regret it – going into the Arena with a mission to get you out of there? You tell me."

Katniss tenses, opening her mouth to respond without a sound.

"We knew what we were doing," he continues. "We knew what was at stake. And we agreed to it because all of us – me, Beetee, Mags, Johanna, Chaff, everyone – believed there was hope for change. And no matter where we all are now – dead, captured in the Capitol, here in 13 – none of us are going to say it wasn't worth this fate if we can bring him down."

Her hands are firmly on the ladder, and she regards him with pain and burden in her grey eyes.

"I don't know much," he says, his voice low, "but I do know that."

* * *

><p>Annie runs, her sparkling green eyes wide with panic, but she can't escape the tsunami creeping up on her. It builds and builds as she races down the dark hallway, always looking over her shoulder. Then, with force of such magnitude it shakes the walls, the wave drops, drowning her instantly.<p>

"No!" Finnick cries, but he can't move forward. He's trapped behind unshakeable glass, and no matter how hard he throws himself at the wall, he's boxed in. Prisoner. Removed from his love.

The water washes away after endless agonizing seconds, and Annie's crumpled form is still in that hallway, now strapped to a bed. As she comes to, her face registers with alarm and incontrollable fear. She begins to thrash, calling for help, for mercy – for him.

"Annie!" he screams, banging his fists on the glass. "Annie, hold on!"

There's nothing in the room with him; not a weapon nor a chair to break the glass. He has no way out, but he continues to throw himself against the glass, determined to get to her.

Behind him, a door opens. He whips around to face President Snow, his snakelike eyes dancing with amusement. The door closes and vanishes, and it's just him and Snow between four walls with no exit.

"Get her out of there!" Finnick orders, pointing to Annie. He takes another look at her panicked form, screaming for help. Turning to Snow, he says, his voice quivering, "I'll do anything. I promise. You can have me. Whatever you want, I'll do it. Just let her out. Please."

Snow simply smiles.

Finnick's blood boils, and he shrieks, "Let her out!"

Snow cocks his head to the side but says no words at all.

That's all it takes for Finnick to lunge at him, throttling his neck. They crash into a wall and Snow does not fight back, does not let his eyes stray from Finnick's. And as his face turns blue, he raises a hand. With his index finger, he points.

Finnick looks over his shoulder. Annie still lays strapped to the bed, and as she screams, there's a sharp buzz. A volt of electricity. It runs from her feet up to her head and her scream becomes so bloodcurdling, so excruciating that Finnick drops his hands from Snow's neck to cover his ears.

"What did you do to her?" he cries. Snow, whose face is regaining its colour, barely has time to compose himself before Finnick punches him – hard. Snow's head crashes into the wall, and as Finnick brings his fist away, gasping at the sting, he turns to Annie.

She's electrified again, and her torturous screams induce his panic.

"Let her go!" His fist crashes once again into Snow, and this time, he _hears _the electric shock as it races through Annie's defenceless body. "Make it stop!" he yells, throwing the old man into the wall. Snow collapses to the ground as Annie cries out again. His name.

He rushes to the window, screaming at the top of his lungs, "Annie! Annie, I'm trying!"

"Don't hurt me!" she pleads, her cheeks wet with tears.

"I'm saving you!" he shouts back, and with another burst of rage, he delivers a swift kick to Snow's gut. This time, Annie screams before the electricity even hits her.

With blood in his mouth, Snow raises his head and meets Finnick's eyes. Even defeated, he has never looked so cruel. He smiles.

Finnick kicks him again. Annie is jolted. He hears it, but she doesn't scream, and when he turns, he sees her lying there, too exhausted to make a sound. Her eyes roll to the back of her head, nearly blacking out from the pain.

He waits, hanging by a splitting thread. Nothing happens.

Snow lies groaning on the dank floor. To test his theory, Finnick kicks him lightly in the chest.

Just as he suspected, Annie is electrified again.

In horror, he stares down at Snow. Every punch, every kick – it's all taken out on her. He can't hurt the man he most wants to kill without hurting the woman he loves most.

What has he done? What is there left to do?

* * *

><p>It used to be the stuff of his nightmares, but Finnick finds that visions now haunt him even in his waking hours, and sleep is unattainable without the help of a pill or a needle. Even then, it's restless. Not a second passes where he isn't tormented by images of a broken Annie, a victorious Snow.<p>

So he sits in his bunker for hours on end, not speaking, tying knot after complicated knot in the short section of rope they've given him as projections of horrific, violent scenes play in his head. They're on lockdown now, after Beetee broke through Capitol command and began airing their rebel propaganda in the Capitol. Peeta warned them they'd all be dead by morning, and without his words, he would have been right. While they all climbed further and further underground, bombs rained down on District 13.

Every so often, he thinks he should find someone and ask to have a vague sense of what is happening, of when they might be free of lockdown mode, but he's too troubled by memories of Peeta's gaunt, thin form onscreen and ideas of what they might be doing to Annie. Sounds of her screams fly around his head like those mockingjays in the Arena until he's dizzy with fear and grief.

Katniss finds him one night – at least, he assumes it to be night, as everyone else seems to be asleep. There's no natural light to confirm either way. She slides beside him on his bunk and curls her knees to her chest, whispering to him her secret fears of Snow using Peeta against her. His harm for her cooperation. Finnick is smothered by his own sorrows, but he still feels badly for her. They expect so much from the Girl on Fire: strength, balance, heart. But she's just a girl, after all, and she's faring much better than even himself, a grown man. Still, everyone has a breaking point. If Katniss reaches hers, then it all may have been for nothing.

"How do you bear it?" she whispers, her voice hoarse with emotion.

He pauses his knot-tying to throw her a sceptical glance. "I don't, Katniss! Obviously, I don't." Even in his fragile state, he can see that being cooped up in the hospital half the time and able to concentrate on nothing but a frayed section of rope does not qualify as 'bearing it'. "I drag myself out of nightmares each morning to find there's no relief in waking," he continues, shaking images of Annie strapped to the bed out of his mind. More gently, he adds, "Better not to give in to it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart."

_And you can't fall, mockingjay_, he thinks to himself. It's selfish, when he's spent so much time ensconced in nothing but his own anguish, but he's not the crux of the rebellion. Katniss is. He swore to the rebels to protect her life, but to himself, he swears an oath that he will not let her be like him. He'll keep her strong, if he can.

So, after one last knot, he hands her his rope. Refreshes her memory on a few of the more intricate knots. And then he urges her back to her bunk, this time with the comforting activity of knotting to keep her from slipping into dark holes.

Awake and alone, he grits his teeth and succumbs to the hell of his own mind.

* * *

><p>By morning, the bombs have ceased for a long enough period that the prisoners – <em>citizens<em>, Finnick reminds himself – of 13 are permitted to climb a few levels of the underground. Most of the levels closer to the surface were destroyed, so everyone is assigned new compartments deeper in the earth.

Finnick certainly doesn't relish the thought of living even deeper in the ground, but he knows he's being unfair. After all, if it weren't for the underground hideout, everyone in 13 would be dead and they would have had nowhere to go after blowing out of the Arena. Still, he can't help feeling more captive here than he ever felt in the Arena. At least in the Arena, death was an option. A sweet escape.

He doesn't have much time to soak in his own misery, however, before Boggs pulls him aside with Haymitch, Katniss and Gale. They're to be sent up to the ground with the film crew to display the damage inflicted on 13 to Panem. With this news, Finnick brightens ever so slightly. While he doesn't much care about their onscreen propaganda, the thought of breathing in fresh air again is welcome.

"Any questions?" asks President Coin after she's finished her instructions.

No one says anything at first, and Finnick looks cautiously around the room before piping up, "Can we have a coffee?"

It's a rarity in 13, but after speaking with Katniss the night before, he didn't get much sleep.

Coin concedes to this, and Finnick almost groans with pleasure when a hot cup is placed in his hands and the warm, rich scent floats on steam to his nostrils.

Katniss, who must be just as exhausted as he is, looks reluctantly at her cup, so he pours some cream in his own cup and then in hers. She still looks reluctant, but he has not forgotten his promise to keep her from breaking.

"Want a sugar cube?" he asks her, his voice low and seductive. His Capitol voice rolls off his tongue as smoothly as ever, but it sounds foreign to his ears. It's only been weeks, he reasons, but it feels like years since he's had to use it.

Nevertheless, it arouses a smile from Katniss.

"Here," he says in serious, dropping the cubes into her drink, "it improves the taste."

She arches a wary eyebrow, but takes a sip with his encouragement. Instantly her nose scrunches in distaste.

"Maybe it's an acquired taste," he relents, "but it might still make you feel better."

She shakes her head, so disgusted that she spits the liquid back into her cup.

He chuckles lightly. "Very attractive, Katniss. Now I see why they want you on camera all the time."

Once she drowns the taste with a gulp of water, she smiles again and jabs him in the ribs. He grins, struck with the thought that he's glad she's here. Not because it was his job to save her or because she's the best hope the rebels have, but because she's his friend. The only one he has in 13.

As they leave the Defence Unit to get in their suits and climb to the surface, Finnick follows Katniss' eyes and catches Gale watching them with a scowl. As Katniss stalks away, Finnick gives the dark-haired boy a sympathetic nod. He feels Gale's anger directed at him, but he can only pity him in return. It's a lost cause, really. The more possessive he is, the more she'll resent him – and she certainly can't give herself to him while Peeta waits for her in captivity.

He can sympathize, but he'll never really know how it feels for any of them – Peeta, Katniss or Gale. As it is, he's only ever loved one girl, and he knows that wherever she is and whatever they're doing to her, she fiercely loves him back.

As he dons his suit and heads to the surface, he thinks to himself that perhaps there is comfort in 13, after all.

* * *

><p>Katniss can't do it. Up there on ground level filming the damage for the districts, she breaks in two as she realizes that every word she says will be held not against her, but Peeta. She falls apart, and Finnick falls apart with her.<p>

He's not sure how long he's out, but sometime later, Katniss wakes him and he realizes to his disappointment that he's back in the hospital.

So frantic and faint he can barely hear her, Katniss whispers to him that they've organized a mission. Only a few are going. Gale is one of them.

They're going to try to break the prisoners out of the Capitol.

Katniss waits for his reaction, studying his expression closely and prepared to call for help if necessary. But he doesn't teeter on the cusp of sanity as usual. Instead, he feels oddly light.

"Don't you see, Katniss," he says, pushing himself off the mattress to sit up, "this will decide things. One way or the other. By the end of the day, they'll either be dead or with us. It's… it's more than we could hope for!"

For a long time, they sit with their heads together as if in prayer. It's how Haymitch finds them. While the soldiers are going in to rescue the ones left behind in the Arena, there needs to be a distraction. Something to keep busy the eyes of the Capitol.

Finnick is sure they'll want Katniss to perform again, and he's right. After they feed, dress and prep her, she's placed in front of a camera and asked for honesty. Her first meeting with Peeta. How he makes her feel. What it's like knowing he's in harm's way. Finnick isn't sure if every word rings true, but he believes the sincerity in her tone. Just like him, she'll do anything to get someone she loves out of danger.

"She's brave," Finnick says to Haymitch as they watch Katniss from the sidelines.

With his arms folded across his chest, Haymitch shrugs. "That, or scared to death."

How easy it is to confuse the two.

Plutarch Heavensbee joins them, flustered by all the excitement, but pleased overall. "Just remarkable," he says, validating his approval in Katniss and her performance. "Sure to captivate some eyes in the Capitol."

"Some?" Haymitch asks warily. "I thought the goal was to captivate _all_."

"It is." Heavensbee nods gravely. "But a teenage love story can only go so far. Would people stop in their tracks to hear what it's _really_ like to be a victor of the Games?" With a sideways glance at Finnick, he adds, "I think they would."

Haymitch gives him a glance, too, and when he notices that all humour has faded from Finnick's expression, he steps in. "No, I don't think so."

"Oh, I do," Heavensbee argues. "You see, everyone in Panem thinks nothing is comparable to the glory of a victor. The riches, the glamour… for the lucky ones who come out alive, life is a dream. Wouldn't it rock them to their very core to hear an account from a victor himself? The threats, the lies… the things you were made to do?"

"No," Haymitch says firmly, trying to step in front of Finnick to weasel him out of the discussion.

"Haymitch, it's the best hope we've got."

"I don't buy that."

"You want the others brought back safely, don't you?"

The pot-bellied mentor glares at the Capitol man, hissing, "He's been through enough."

"It could be the difference between getting them home alive or in pieces," Plutarch argues in a low voice, teeth gritted.

If they're trying to keep Finnick from hearing, it isn't working. He's heard every word, and whether he trusts either of their judgment, he knows what he must do.

"Even if he did do it, there's no telling if anyone would believe him," Haymitch counters. "Sounds crazy, doesn't it? That every happy victor lived a personal hell of their own behind the smile?"

"They'd believe me," Finnick pipes up for the first time. Heavensbee and Haymitch turn to him, and he nods slowly. With resolve in his voice that he's not sure he possesses, he says, "Get me on camera and I can prove it."

Haymitch is sour as Finnick goes to take Katniss' seat in front of the camera. "You don't have to do this," he says, placing a firm hand on Finnick's shoulder.

Finnick isn't sure when Haymitch became so protective of him, but he shrugs him off. Haymitch doesn't have anyone. He can't know how far someone would go to protect the one they love.

With an image in his mind of Annie waiting for him in the waves under the sunshine, Finnick knows there's nothing he wouldn't do.

"Yes, I do. If it will help her," he says, pulling the rope from its safe place in his pocket and curling it into his fist. He looks directly into the lens of the camera and says to the crew, "I'm ready."

He's not ready. He's not sure he ever will be. But somewhere in the back of his mind, there's the notion that this is right. Who else has more information on Snow than him? And what was he collecting it for if not to expose the man to the world? To bring him down?

This is what it was all for. So he begins without introduction, cutting right to the chase.

"President Snow used to… sell me… my body, that is." He clears his throat, the urge to shrink in front of the camera a new sensation to him. "I wasn't the only one," he's quick to add. "If a victor is considered desirable, the president gives them as a reward or allows people to buy them for an exorbitant amount of money. If you refuse, he kills someone you love. So you do it."

Kills… tortures… imprisons… there are some things he can't bear to talk about. His mother. His father. What Snow did to them as Finnick's punishment.

"I wasn't the only one, but I was the most popular. And perhaps the more defenceless, because the people I loved were so defenceless. To make themselves feel better, my patrons would make presents of money or jewelry, but I found a much more valuable form of payment: secrets."

Around him, he hears light gasps in the spectators, and even the camera crew seem taken aback. This is news to everyone, it seems – but if he's played his cards right, it will be news to no one more than to President Snow.

Finnick adjusts himself in his chair and begins to talk. He lets the dialogue flow freely as it comes to his mind: stories of Anjulia Lavalle, Damellys, Ilana, and even the warped Carmela Knoff. Bringing these women to the forefront of his mind and reliving their time together makes him ill at times, but he soldiers on. He'll be damned if all eyes in the Capitol aren't on him now, suddenly interested in what he, a poor fisherman's son, has to say.

And once he's done – once he's exhausted every nasty quirk, every twisted secret that these women had to offer, he moves on to the man of the hour: President Snow. Oh, the things he knows about President Snow. Things his most trusted advisors would only know in stilted snippets. Jaws drop as he speaks, but he does not let up. He focuses on the camera and repeats every gritty, gory detail that's ever been whispered to him under the bed sheets. And when he's done, when his stream of consciousness has come to an end, he slumps in his seat and tells them to cut the scene.

Silence engulfs the room. No one speaks for a long time, though the film crew wraps up and rushes off to edit the footage. Everyone else is in too much of a stupor, even Finnick himself. All those years of gathering secrets, released in an hour. No longer his to hold onto.

He fervently hopes it wasn't for nothing.

* * *

><p>Beetee is truly a genius, and Finnick watches him in awe as he sweats over the control boards, infiltrating and cutting off Capitol broadcasts time and time again. Most of the footage they use is Finnick's, and suddenly he realizes that a sizeable fraction of success of the mission depends on him. It strengthens and weakens him all at once.<p>

After Beetee's work is done and Finnick's account has been successfully aired in bits and pieces, there's nothing to do but wait. Either they got in and picked up the prisoners, or they didn't. Only time will tell, for Beetee won't risk contacting them and giving away their position.

"If they're not out of there by now, they're all dead," he says matter-of-factly. Finnick thought he would be okay with it – news of Annie's death would mean her relief, her final escape – but as soon as Beetee says the words, he knows he won't be okay. She can't die. There's so little hope that she can live, but he finds it hard to believe that he could give everything he has and it still wouldn't be enough.

But there's no telling. He and Katniss deny their dinner and spend what must be hours in silence outside of Special Defence, where they're sure the news will hit first. Katniss has her own rope now and they sit side-by-side, unspeaking, tying and untying as if it's all that's keeping them going. He throws his rope away after his fingers cease to function properly and brings his knees to his chest, rocking himself back and forth as he stares at the floor. Finnick finds himself oddly anxious when Katniss leaves him for a few minutes to go to the bathroom – he's spent so much time alone that he can't live in solitude any longer, but there's no one but Katniss who understands his predicament. They're a comfort to one another.

"Did you love Annie right away, Finnick?" she asks him when she returns. It's strange to hear her speak again when they've spent so long understanding each other in silence.

"No," he replies, a quizzical tone to his voice. For half his life, Annie was just the bold, inquisitive girl next door. Gentle, harmless, but a bother all the same. It's hard to remember a time when he didn't love her. When she didn't mean the world to him. He has a hard time believing that he ever shied away from her touch or groaned at her presence, but he knows it to be true. The day he realized it was love was the day he realized it had been love for a long, long time. Slowly, he adds, "She crept up on me."

He's not sure how she's done it, but Katniss' question calms him. He stops his rocking and sits still, resting his chin on his knees and drifting into a blank, serene state of mind. For a few minutes, he senses that his answer has somehow unsettled Katniss, but after a while, even she's gone, too.

They sit there for a long, long time. He stops wondering, stops yearning for answers and has simply accepted the waiting when Haymitch bursts through the door, breathless and frantic.

"They're back. We're wanted in the hospital."

Katniss jumps from her position as if she's a horse leaping out of her stall at the races, having waited for the bell to go off all this time. Haymitch's words take much longer to be fully appreciated by Finnick, who sits absolutely still in stunned silence.

_They're back. They're back. They're back. _

That could mean anything – Haymitch didn't specify who, or in what condition – but if he's ever to see Annie again, it's going to be now. He hears her voice clearer than ever, but somehow her face is a mystery, her dark, tangled hair no longer a feeling he recalls on his fingertips.

Before he can register what this truly means, he finds himself being led to the elevator, Katniss' hand firmly locked with his.

Annie. Annie could be here. Annie, right now. The morning of the reaping, he thought it was the last time he'd ever see her. Even when he was pulled alive from the Arena he didn't dare hope… didn't dream… and even though Snow's secrets left his lips in an attempt to save her, he didn't let himself wish that it would actually work. That they would actually meet again while both of them still drew breath.

As soon as they get off the elevator in the hospital, he's overwhelmed by the chaos. Blood seems to be everywhere, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls and floors and uniforms. Everyone is shouting. Nurses are running this way and that, and the otherwise crispy air of the wing is drenched in sweat and human suffering.

Even with Katniss' firm grip on his hand, he's nearly knocked over by a gurney that sweeps by. In horror, he sees the woman aboard: young, bruised, beaten, starved, tortured, with a shaved head and a mouth that hangs open in unconsciousness. It's Johanna. Johanna, who knew so much. If the rebels hadn't picked him up in the Arena, it could have been him hanging onto life by a thread. His stomach drops as the gurney rushes by and into a nearby room, and all he can do is shake his head and squeeze the hand in his.

Katniss squeezes back.

"Finnick!"

He snaps to attention, his eyes focusing and losing their blur for the first time since morning. It's not the name that calls him to alert, but the voice. He'd recognize that voice anywhere.

Annie. She's here.

_She's here_.

And there she is, racing toward him in nothing but a sheet, her sea green eyes shining with tears. She's more beautiful than he ever dared imagine, and before he has time to blink, he's moving toward her, dropping Katniss' hand. It wasn't his brain that moved him, but his heart – the magnetic pull to Annie is stronger than he's ever felt it.

"Finnick!" she cries again, and then they're connected, embracing, enfolding, entwined, _touching_. They crash into each other and latch on so quickly that the force of their collision throws them into a wall. Still, he doesn't care. She doesn't care. Heaven and earth could collapse in on them and still he wouldn't give a damn, not with Annie in his arms.

She's real. She feels so real in his arms, and he pulls himself from her neck and kisses her – her hair, her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, and finally, her lips. A salty tang is on his taste buds, familiar and comforting. It's hard to tell whether it's her tears or his, but he'll take it all.

District 13 is neither here nor there, but suddenly, it's home.

* * *

><p><strong>… hi. I feel like shrinking into a corner because I know that this is a day late… and in a much more real sense, it is three weeks and a day late. I feel terrible that I was unable to get my act together. My family got hit with some rough news a few weeks ago and I've had to re-jig much of my life because of it, and as a result, I haven't had the time or the concentration to get some writing done. I can't promise that I'm back on track, but I'm trying my darndest! Thank you all for your patience and understanding :) <strong>

** I _did_ post something in the interim – it's the first instalment of a three-shot called THE WILD ONES. While KNOTTED is Finnick's side of the story, THE WILD ONES is a "what if?" story, which is somehow even more challenging. It's also the most "mature" thing I've ever written in terms of content – I wouldn't say it's explicit by any means, but you know. Gotta be careful with those ratings. If you're at all interested in alternate pairings, you can check that out if you'd like while I work on the next chapter of KNOTTED! **

** Thanks again for all of your feedback, constructive or just plain ol' encouraging. I appreciate it all and wish you a happy Monday! **


	21. roses in the rain

**Chapter 21:** _75__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

At times, it had killed him to keep secrets from her. He'd spent so much of his life in perpetual solitude, so many of his secrets trapped inside where they were safe. He'd given thought to telling her, had almost let things slip on occasion just to solidify her trust in him – to let her in.

Now, Finnick is so glad he bore the full burden. Annie had nothing to tell Snow concerning the conspiracy, and she suffered less for it. Of course, there's no measure of the mental distress she was made to endure… but physically, aside from a few scratches, bruises and dehydration, she is all right.

He sits with her through all the examinations, holds tightly to her hand and keeps his eyes patiently focused on her. Once the chaos of the returned prisoners has died down in the hospital and everyone has either been released or quarantined to recover, the hospital staff suggests to Finnick that he retire to his own compartment.

He staunchly refuses. The sky can burst open and rain can pour down, but he'll never leave Annie's side. It's something he feels so strongly about that he's prepared to fight if they send in men to drag him away.

"There are no spare beds in this wing, Mr. Odair," a nurse tells him, her patience running thin.

"I'll sleep in the chair," he says with a slight shake of his head. If this is the strongest argument they have, then they know nothing about what he and Annie have endured.

"It's after midnight. Today's been an exception, but normally we don't allow visitors past five…" she trails off.

Finnick stands and moves to draw the curtain across Annie's bed; her only privacy. Giving the nurse a curt nod, he says quietly, "I'm not leaving."

From behind him, Annie echoes his sentiment. "I need him to stay."

Finnick sits beside her and holds her hand for a long while, certain that someone else will pop in to interfere. A doctor drops by to take Annie's temperature and perform a few other simple tests, and after he jots a few things on his clipboard, he's gone. No one bothers them after that – either they've realized the matter is too trivial to bother with, or they can sense how fervently the young couple needs each other.

"Come here," Annie pleads, and Finnick drags his chair closer to the bed. She furrows her brow. "No. Lie with me."

He hesitates. "It's a small bed…"

"Please," she breathes.

Even in the dark, silent hours of the night, his mind is whirling with questions and anxious curiosity. But if Annie's in no hurry, then he must concede to be patient. He's waited this long.

Carefully, he climbs onto the narrow mattress beside her and lies on his side, gazing at her lovingly as he strokes her hair.

"I want to hear your voice," she says. She places a hand on his chest, furling the material of his shirt in her fingers.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Anything."

So, with a voice husky and deep, he murmurs into her ear, "I love you."

Annie's eyes close, and she sighs into his neck. "Again."

"I love you, Annie Cresta."

They lay entwined for a long time – so long that Finnick is convinced she's fallen asleep. He's content to lie awake with his love until morning, but she stirs, nuzzling her nose in his neck as she does.

"Peeta was right," she says, her voice muffled in his collar.

He frowns. Peeta?

"About what?"

"He said if you were dead, they would have just killed me," she says, her tone distant and removed. "They wouldn't have left me sitting in a cell; they would have gotten it over with. But as long as you were breathing, they'd keep me. My life depended on yours. Peeta said that every day I woke up was another day you woke up, too."

He feels a surge of gratitude for the blond-haired baker's son, who is certainly in worse condition than Annie but kept her hopes up regardless. A surge of gratitude, and a surge of guilt for not saving him like he deserved to be saved.

"I tried to believe him, but some days it felt like you were truly gone and unreachable." Annie slides her palm flat across his chest, resting it on his rapidly-beating heart. "You're alive," she whispers. "Real or not real?"

He nods ardently, choked with emotion. "Real, Annie."

"That was the hardest part," she admits. "Not the dark or the cold or the loneliness… but not knowing if you were okay. The hardest part was believing that somewhere, you still existed. If I hadn't clung to that hope, I don't know what might have become of me."

He sucks in a shaky breath, and Annie raises her hand to his cheek and frowns, noting that it's wet.

"Why are you crying?" she asks, fraught with concern.

"Because," he gasps, holding her hand to his cheek, "I wished you were dead. I didn't want you to suffer, not because of me. I… it hurt more to think of you alive and in Snow's hands than dead and free."

Annie nods, a heartbreaking sadness to her thoughtful expression as her thumb traces his jaw line.

"I lost hope," he confesses, his eyes blurred with tears. "I never thought I'd see you again. My fingers are raw from tying knots… they've barely let me out of the hospital. They knock me out to keep me from thinking. Annie, I don't work without you. They wanted me to do so much more, but I couldn't because I… I…"

"Shh," she whispers, planting a kiss on his jaw.

He holds her tighter, clinging desperately and burying his head in her hair. "I'm sorry," he says through tears. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

He'd wanted to be there for her; had vowed never to leave her side again. But it's Annie who holds Finnick through the night, cradling his head and caressing his hair and whispering to him for comfort.

It's odd, he thinks as he dozes in her embrace, how they perceive him to be the strong one. He is weakened by the tender touch and gaze of who they think is a mad girl, and he surrenders all control.

_"Is it draining?"_ his brother had once asked him. _"Always having to be strong for her?"_

_"No,"_ he'd answered on instinct. _"If I didn't have Annie, I'd have nothing to be strong for at all."_

But he had been wrong, and he knows it now as sure as he knows he is finally hers, utterly and wholly. He is rendered to her in the sweetest of ways, and it's she who holds his heart in her hands – steady, strong, and with a gentle kindness he's never known from anyone else.

* * *

><p>His eyes have been so heavy these past weeks, and he sleeps so soundly next to her. He's never done well sleeping alone – the sound of another's breathing has always been calming. A reminder that there is still life.<p>

But he's so deeply unconscious that he doesn't catch her nightmare until it's full-blown, and when he wakes, he jolted by her scream.

"Don't hurt him!" she is yelling. "I'll go, just please, don't hurt him!"

"Annie!" he cries, blinking repeatedly and grabbing her shoulder. He shakes her lightly, repeating her name – but by the time she's awake, the nurses have rushed in.

"Out!" they order, shocked that he has dared climb into bed with her. "Away – this is a private room!"

They yank him out of bed and, bleary-eyed, he is shooed out of the room. Annie is still trembling, and as the nurses converge on her, she calls out.

"No – please! I don't know anything!"

The door is shut behind him before he can register what has happened. Suddenly, he turns, banging his fist on the metal.

"Let me in!" he demands, pounding on the window. Inside, he sees Annie thrashing, hears the sound of her scream.

It's the Capitol. It's the Capitol all over again. For her, it's her prison cell – for him, it's watching her suffer from behind a closed door.

He doesn't stop his histrionics until after they've sedated her and two men have been summoned to drag him away. And then, as he's placed into his unfriendly compartment and told to let her sleep off the drugs and wake up calmer, he vows to get them out of there. Out of District 13, out of confinement and into the light.

Because, goddamnit, there has to be light somewhere.

* * *

><p>Annie spends the rest of the day heavy-lidded and panics at the slightest sound. It's not until the hospital quiets again at night that Finnick can call her back.<p>

It's not the time to bring it up in her fragile state, but he must say what's on his mind before she dozes again. "Annie, don't think about me," he pleads. "Don't dream of me if you can help it."

She blinks, slipping her hand into his. "Why would you say that?"

Her bed is so small, but so inviting, and he knows he will climb in later if she asks. For now, he sits beside her, angled toward her head, having just fetched her another blanket. The air pumped through the vents is chilling and musty and smells of dust.

"You speak in your sleep," he says. "We all do. Last night, I heard your dreams, and I… I just want you to know that I was safe. I'm safe. It's you who was in trouble, so there's no need to worry about me."

"Last night?" she asks blankly.

He nods.

She ponders until acknowledgement registers on her face. "But I wasn't dreaming about you."

It's what he'd asked for, but somehow there is a lump in his throat; a rock in his belly. His lips part in bewilderment.

"It was Fletcher in my dream," she adds, and the rock turns to a jackhammer that pounds every organ without mercy.

He gulps, though his mouth is dry and there is nothing there. He casts down his eyes, a deep, rickety breath echoing in his chest. The name is all he can manage to breathe: "Fletcher?"

Annie gives a slow nod, a pained crease in between her brow.

"What happened?" he asks, but he's not sure he can bear to know.

She sits forward, taking his hand in both of hers. "The night it ended," she begins, referring to the last night in the Arena, "the screen went black. Nobody knew what had happened or if any of the tributes were still alive. I stepped out the back door, wondering if I could feel you in the wind. After a few minutes, all there was to light your way home was stars. They cut the power in District 4. And even from our house, I could hear them shouting in the town…"

With a shake of her head, Annie shrinks into herself. Finnick licks his lips in terrified anticipation, cursing himself for asking, "Then what?"

"He found me."

On the edge of his seat, Finnick tenses with rage. "Who? Snow?"

Annie's face pales. "It was you running through the door. Grabbing me and rushing me inside. Yelling that we had to go, we had to get out."

Dread consumes him as he worries that he's lost her again. She's in another world.

"I thought I was dreaming," she says, "and then I thought I was dead, too, just like you. But when we stepped outside and he walked in the light of the moon, I saw it wasn't you, but someone who looked just the same. Except there was a hardness in his eyes when he looked at me. That was how I knew."

"Fletcher?" Finnick asks, just to be sure. Perhaps she's not dazed after all. "He came for you?"

Annie nods. "And I didn't know… I wasn't sure. I lost us time. He knew they would come for me."

Finnick can only nod in return, encouraging her to go on.

"We didn't get far. Maybe they'd been waiting all along. All of a sudden there were peacekeepers. At least four of them. They found us in the dark. Fletcher tried to hide me, but it was too late – they knew I was there. What happened next is fuzzy… all I remember is the screaming. And I remember his head against the tree trunk. His hands behind his back. And one of the peacekeepers took a baton out of his belt. A long, black stick…"

Finnick shakes his head. "No," he breathes.

Annie suppresses a sob at the memory. "And he kept refusing. We'd lost by then, but he kept struggling. Kept saying he wouldn't let them take me, even as his blood spilled onto the ground."

Before he knows it, he's staring at the ground, his head hanging limply. Guilt overrides him, breaking a dam and rushing through.

"It wasn't his fault," Annie continues, no longer able to contain the sob that escapes. "I begged him to let me go. To let them take me."

"Why?" Finnick asks, his voice no more than a whisper.

"Because if you were still alive, they would hurt you if I didn't." His eyes fill with tears, and he brings Annie's hand to his cheek as he shuts his eyes. "He didn't want to. He said he promised you… but he knew it, too. We couldn't stand to think of what they'd do to you."

A tear slips down his cheek and onto Annie's hand. Fletcher, beaten and bloodied, committed to the promise he'd made to Finnick: to keep her safe. Did he rob a family of a life? Little Bellamy and Ivy, must they grow up without a father? The thought of their names alone cause him to sniffle, and he knows his reckless emotions are about to overflow.

Raising his head, he asks without expectation, "Did he live?"

Annie loses it at the question. She gasps, and then her face dissolves in apology and fear and grief. "I don't know," she cries, releasing her hand from his to run it through his hair. Then she covers her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to contain herself. But her shoulders shake violently, and his heart bleeds so openly that he moves forward and onto the bed, cradling her in his arms as they weep together.

"It's not your fault," he says in one breath, racked by another sob. The fabric on his chest is damp as she cries into his shirt. He repeats, more steadily this time, "It's not your fault."

But the thought of his brother lying next to his father makes him nauseous and grief-ridden, and with a sorrowful sob, he wonders if he is repeating the words more to himself than to Annie.

The storm is aggressive, but it passes by, and soon they are left breathing shakily and clinging onto one another.

"It might be better, like you said," Annie suggests feebly. "If Fletcher were gone, there would be no more pain."

Finnick knows, then, that he was wrong about death, because pain fills him so completely that he can feel nothing else. Pain. Pain. Fletcher's lifeless body. His defenceless family.

And somewhere, Snow's laughing eyes.

* * *

><p>Days later, he masters the masking of his pain for Annie's sake and is strong enough to prevent himself from thinking of anything but the present.<p>

"Oh, yeah. I forgot about you," Haymitch says as Finnick wanders into the Special Defence Unit. Katniss and Gale, who have both been speaking quietly with him, look over their shoulders.

He offers a smile. "Forget? About _me_?" he jokes, feeling lighter than he's felt in months. "Haymitch, I'm appalled."

The pot-bellied mentor shrugs. "Can't deny you've been nonexistent since the others were brought back."

His smile fades, though he keeps his tone friendly. "They're keeping Annie in the hospital. Hey – can you talk to someone about that? They don't listen to me, but she'd be better off out of there. All the tubes and the beeping make her nervous."

"'Fraid not," Haymitch replies, though he doesn't seem sorry at all. "In case you haven't heard, we're off to District 2."

Finnick has heard whispers of a mission to 2, the only district remaining with ties to the Capitol.

"Today?" he asks.

Gale and Haymitch nod.

He shifts his gaze to Katniss. "What about Peeta?"

She's taken aback by his question, but regains her composure quickly. "He's not exactly fit for a mission just yet."

"Or ever," Gale adds under his breath. The flicker of annoyance in Katniss' eyes proves that she heard him, but she says nothing.

"Who will stay with him?" Finnick asks innocently. Leaving Annie would be impossible for him.

"His nurses. Delly Cartwright," Katniss says. Finnick has no idea who Delly Cartwright is, but he doesn't press further. The girl with the braid adds quietly, "He wouldn't want me."

"I doubt we could get you on the mission if we asked for doctoral permission," Haymitch says, changing the subject, "but if we went straight to Coin, we might have a chance."

Finnick shakes his head slowly, a frown building. "No – I can't go. Annie's here now."

Haymitch appears surprised – of course, he's only ever known the flirtatious side of Finnick – but says nothing. With a curt nod, he pats Finnick on the shoulder and walks away. Gale is soon to follow, murmuring to Finnick that he hopes they meet again.

Finnick didn't think of it that way, but Gale is right – this could be the last time. Every time there's a mission, it could be the last time.

He's left with Katniss, staring thoughtfully at her and wondering why she's so willing to participate in the mission when, a few weeks ago, the last thing she wanted was to be the mockingjay.

"They brainwashed him," she mutters, referring to Peeta. "He tried to kill me. He thinks I'm evil. I don't know."

Of course. It makes sense. Instead of killing him, they did something worse: turning him against her.

"They did that to Annie after her Games," Finnick tells her, which is something he only ever spoke of with Mags. "She thought I'd tried to kill her in there. That I never wanted her to get out alive."

Katniss' grey eyes flash to meet his. "How did you get her to trust you again?"

He shrugs, swallowing. "I stayed with her."

The girl sighs, gripping the golden bow in her hand. "The world is on fire. I can't stay with Peeta and watch it burn around us." She swats her braid over her shoulder and turns to follow Haymitch. Glancing over her shoulder, she adds, "Beetee designed you the trident for a reason."

Hands in his pockets, he's left watching her go.

* * *

><p>When they are alone and untouched by chaos or distress, pieces of his Annie come back, and somehow, so do pieces of himself that didn't exist without her. To find he cares again – deeply – about the needs of another and the outcome of the rebellion is a surprise to no one more than him. He won't dare allow himself to hope too fiercely, but in the back of his mind he senses an inlaid yearning to make a life with Annie, to leave everything behind but her in a world that is safe and free.<p>

But it's only in the quiet that he can listen to himself. And it's only in the unknown that Annie reacts fearfully, squeezing shut her eyes, blocking her ears, laughing nervously and mentally dropping out altogether. Time and time again, Finnick explains to the doctors and nurses that if they would just let her go, if they would just leave them in peace, Annie would be fine. There's no doubt in his mind that he can care for her better than they can. Hours of therapy and tests and data won't fix her – only he can, and she him.

No one is entirely convinced, but he doesn't stop arguing for Annie's release. Even if they don't believe she's sane and fit for the warped civilization of 13, he's sure they'll have to let her go at some point, if only because he refuses to leave her side. Visiting hours be damned. On the fifth day, once he's moved a few of his clothes and hauled the table from his compartment over to Annie's room so that they can play cards and other games, the hospital staff get permission from Coin to allow Finnick to take her out.

Annie hasn't seen anything of 13, so Finnick takes her on a tour. With hands interlaced, he shows her the common rooms, the Collective, the cafeteria, and though they aren't allowed very far into the Special Defence Unit, Beetee ventures out to say a brief hello. Annie is most entranced by the interesting elevators that zip this way and that through the underground.

"Everything is very… compact," she remarks as they wander through the halls. "And very white."

Finnick nods. "After a while, you begin to forget that colour exists."

Annie furrows her brow in distaste. "I don't like that."

He sighs. "I hate it here," he mutters. "I hate living underground like moles. I hate that everything is so cramped and nobody has any space to breathe. I hate the stale smell of the air and I hate that when I look up all I see is the ceiling closing in on me." He squeezes her hand in frustration, running a hand through his hair. "After all this, all I want to give you is open sky and stars."

"Hmm," Annie hums to herself, gazing distantly at the blank, lifeless walls and tile on the floor. "I don't really need that. I just need you."

He glances at her, innocently raising his eyebrows at her simple statement.

"I always pictured our lives in District 4, but we're not in a place to choose these days," she continues. With a small shrug, she adds, "We could make a home here."

"Not much of one."

"Enough of one."

"We would have no garden."

"You said Katniss has a cat. Maybe we could get one."

He scrunches his nose in distaste, but nonetheless, her optimism astounds him, so much so that he can't help but stop in the middle of the hallway to embrace her. Anything, he must agree, would be better than being without Annie.

"And this," he says a while later, once they stop in front of a door numbered 426C, "is your compartment."

They gave him the number and the key to hold onto when they had released Annie from the hospital in the morning. It's not much to present her with, but it's symbolic: a little bit of freedom. Finally.

Annie frowns.

"You don't like it?" he asks, confused. They haven't even gone inside yet!

"You said _your _compartment," she says. "Not _our _compartment. Where is yours?"

"Two floors up. 253B."

"Oh," Annie says, unable to mask her crestfallen expression. "I wanted… I thought we would stay together."

He sighs again, leaning on the doorway. "I tried." Cursing under his breath, he continues, "That's another thing I hate about this place. The strict rules… the tradition. Everybody has to be under control and in their place all the time. I told them we'd been staying together since before I was twenty, but when I asked Coin, she said… she said we couldn't share a compartment unless we were married."

Annie drops her gaze, biting her lip in contemplation. When she raises her eyes again, Finnick sees a strength and determination rarely displayed in his quiet girl. "Then why don't we?"

He pauses. "Why don't we what?"

"Why don't we get married?"

Her boldness takes him aback, though he quickly remembers it's one of the reasons he loves her – she has always been brazen and unashamed, humbly so.

His mouth opens, but no words escape.

"We could do it here," she continues, eyeing him strangely as if testing the waters. "And soon."

A cautious smile registers on his face. "You still want to marry me?"

It's his turn to catch her by surprise. "Yes." She blinks. "Do you still want to marry me?"

"Oh, Annie," he grins, pulling her in for a kiss. "So much it hurts."

She rests her forehead against his and sighs happily, eyes closed. "I could wait forever to go back to District 4 and see the ocean, but I've waited long enough for you."

Though her eyes are shut, he can't contain his smile, for her words sound like a prayer and he is praying alongside her. "Amen."

They confirm it with Plutarch Heavensbee that very day. Shortly after the others return from their mission to District 2, there's to be a wedding. Though Heavensbee's eyes grow wide with excitement, Finnick himself doesn't care about the size or the spectacle. Snow doesn't own him anymore, and never will again. He's free to give everything to Annie – heart, soul, and body – and he discovers that perhaps there is more to freedom in District 13 than he had originally thought.

* * *

><p>He's heard that she doesn't want visitors, but Johanna has frequently crossed his mind. He wants to see her if only for the reassurance that she is alive. Still breathing. There is also guilt behind his visit – guilt because it took him so long. Johanna would never admit to having a friend, but he's certain he was as close to her as anyone ever got.<p>

Annie accompanies him, holding tight to his hand. "She got the worst of it," she says faintly as they approach the door to Johanna's room in the hospital. "I know her scream better than anyone's…"

Finnick squeezes her hand, briefly shutting his eyes at the horrifying thought. Johanna, tortured by Capitol guards, and Annie, locked in a cold cell with Johanna's screams a dark lullaby.

The hospital room is stark white and unfriendly. Johanna, her face still badly bruised and her now-bald head covered in scabs, is hooked to a number of intriguing machines with several IVs in her arms. As soon as his eyes fall on her, Finnick has the overwhelming urge to drop to his knees and beg for her forgiveness. That it had to be her when it could have so easily been him.

"Johanna?" he asks, approaching the bed. Her eyes are open and she is awake, but whether or not she registers his words is unknown. He pulls up chairs – one for himself and one for Annie – and they sit in silence, hesitant and on edge. Annie bites her lip and struggles to keep her breathing regulated, for Johanna's state brings back traumatizing memories of the Capitol.

Finally, Finnick reaches out and touches her hand. The beaten girl gulps and, with a subtle movement of her head, lays her eyes to rest on his.

"Hi," he says gently. "Jo, it's me. Finnick."

She appears to roll her eyes, though the effort is too much for her. "I know who you are," she says, and her voice still has that edge. She looks away, adding, "I didn't think you'd come."

A slight frown registers on his features. "You thought your 'no visitors' policy would stop me?"

"No," she grumbles, casting a sideways glance at Annie. Finnick follows her gaze, and Annie sits there, apprehensive and innocent.

"Annie wanted to see you, too," he says. "And I wanted to introduce you properly. Annie, this is Johanna. Johanna, this is my… this is Annie."

Neither makes any move toward the other. Johanna scoffs. "Bit late for formalities. We got to know each other real well. Right, Annie?"

Annie stiffens beside him, wincing in pain.

"In fact, she was almost in view of their torture chamber, and definitely within earshot. Probably knows things about me that nobody else knows." Johanna's eyes drift dully to Annie's, asking without emotion, "Did you tell him, Annie? Does he know my screams, too?"

Finnick is caught in a hard place. When Annie's eyes fill with tears, he has no other impulse than to scorn Johanna and demand her apology. But one look at her tiny, broken figure is all he needs to remind him that she could be so much worse, given what she's been through. And then all he feels is pity.

Eyes watering, Annie shakes her head fervently. Finnick frowns, wondering if she is answering Johanna's question or merely attempting to escape from the present.

Johanna considers it a response. With a laugh that doesn't quite reach her eyes, she remarks, "You were a good little prisoner. Innocent and quiet… but now with so many secrets. You two have that in common."

Annie is still shaking her head, and Finnick knows she is desperate to remove herself from this situation. With a gentle hand on her shoulder, he asks her to wait outside for him. He'll just be a minute.

"Why did you come?" Johanna asks in a faint voice as soon as Annie's out of earshot.

"I wanted to see you," he answers, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

She's quick to bite. "If that were true, you would have found me five days ago."

"It _is _true," he insists. Softly, he adds, "I was just afraid."

The bald rebel scoffs. "Afraid of what? My hideousness?"

He ignores her, staring at his hands. "Afraid of seeing you… knowing it could have so easily been me."

She swallows with effort, rolling her eyes. "Well, I'm not consoling you, because let's face it: I've been dealt the worse hand here. It was never going to be you, Pretty Boy. They were always going to take you over me."

"I could have found you instead of running after Enobaria," he says, shaking his head. "I could have saved you."

"That wasn't your job," she snaps. "You were supposed to protect the Girl on Fire, and you did. We made no such promises to one another."

He raises his head, pain in his shining eyes. "If this went ahead like a real Games, I wouldn't have killed you," he admits, because he knows there is no way he ever could.

Johanna is not so soft. "I might have killed you," she confesses, her tone eerily tender, "if I couldn't get someone else to do it for me."

A shaky sigh ripples through him. He's gotten nowhere and feels worse than before.

"Annie and I…" he begins as he stands, "we're getting married next week."

Johanna raises her eyebrows, impassive but alert. "That's… sudden."

He shrugs. "I guess. I asked her to marry me a long time ago."

"She _can_ keep secrets, then," Johanna murmurs to herself. "All those long, silent days we spent in the cells, and she never said a thing."

Finnick doesn't rise to the bait to tell her she's being unfair. Instead, he sucks in a breath and says, "We'd really like you to be there. I don't really know where 'there' is, yet, but Plutarch has all kinds of crazy ideas." He chuckles awkwardly. "He and Coin are fighting tooth and nail. She wants a short, clipped ceremony; he wants the grandest party this district has ever seen. Should be interesting to see how it plays out."

Johanna doesn't have the energy to feign amusement. "She was quieter than I thought she'd be in there," she says. "Whenever she was questioned, we waited for her screams… but they never came. She would just stop existing inside herself, and no matter what they did to her, she wouldn't turn back on. They say she's mad… they all do. Even Plutarch."

He stares at her for a lengthy period of time. Then, without another word, he walks to the door.

Glancing wistfully over his shoulder before he steps out, he says, "I hope you can make it, Jo."

* * *

><p><strong>I have a feeling that I am back on track with this story, which is completely related to the fact that I quit my job and my last day was yesterday. So, while I apologize profusely for my lack of attention to Knotted in the past couple of months, I should be finishing this up soon!<strong>

**Thank you as always for your patience, and happy Canada Day! **


	22. the saints go marching in

**Chapter 22:** _75__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

District 13 is quiet – so quiet, it's often difficult to tell night from day. The only way Finnick can differentiate between the two is because night is when he must separate from Annie. Still, at what must be midnight or later, he tiptoes through the empty hallways dully illuminated by artificial lighting and finds his way to compartment 426C. It's silly, he thinks, to sneak around in such a way – even as children, he and Annie met on the beach at night in the open air. To meet clandestinely, and on the eve of their wedding, no less, seems unnecessary.

Nonetheless, he finds himself rapping on Annie's door, hissing, "Annie? It's me. It's Finnick."

The door opens a sliver and Annie peers through the slat, wide-eyed and alarmed.

"I'm sorry for scaring you," he says as he enters and closes the door behind him. Enveloped in darkness, he fumbles for the switch on the wall and turns on the light.

Annie squints in the light. "They'll find you."

He shakes his head, dismissing the notion. "Trust me. I'm not their biggest security threat."

Annie grabs a hold of her dark, tangled mane and throws it over one shoulder, where she twists the ends with her finger. "I'm glad to see you," she says, "but in District 4, it's bad luck to visit the bride the night before the wedding."

With a sad but patient smile, he reminds her, "We're not in District 4."

"I know," she replies, lowering her gaze to the floor.

He takes her hands in his and sits with her on the bed. "I know it's late," he begins, "but I can't bear the thought of you…" His words trail, and he sighs. Annie waits expectantly, a slight crease in her brow. "Secrets," he blurts out, for it's all he can manage to put into words. "My whole life, there have been secrets. Dark secrets. And now that our time has finally come; now that we… I don't belong to Snow anymore, I thought… well, I'm yours, Annie. I won't keep anything from you again. He can't hurt us like he did before."

Annie's breathing is shallow, and she asks in trepidation, "Did you keep secrets from me?"

With a frown, he nods.

"Why?"

He licks his lips, squeezing her hands. "Because I love you," he says simply.

Regarding him warily, she pulls back her hands. "I don't understand."

"There were things that I knew about Snow," he confesses. "Things the women had told me. Things I wanted to keep safe to one day use against him. You were already in too dangerous a position – they knew I'd do anything to keep you and would use you against me. I would have wanted you to tell them everything you knew just so they'd keep their hands off you. That's why I kept it inside. But there were other things, too," he adds. "Things I kept from you because I wanted to protect you. Because you'd lived through so much pain and I couldn't bear to be the one to bring you more."

Annie folds her hands in her lap, mulling over his words. Finnick waits with baited breath, his eyes pleading.

Staring at her knees, concealed by a thin papery nightgown, she asks, "Will you ever tell me?"

"Yes," he says hastily, placing a hand tentatively on her knee. "If you want to know, I'll tell you. Maybe I was wrong to keep it from you. I don't know anymore." His index finger hooks under her chin, gently urging her to raise her head. When their eyes meet, he swears, "I'm yours. In every way, now. Whatever you want of me, I'll give it."

Annie leans in to peck his mouth, her lips clenched in a tight smile. The air around them feels hot – not the delicious kind of warmth the sun brings in District 4, but a muggy, thick heat that keeps Finnick's breathing shallow.

"The secrets," she whispers, as if the word itself is what it implies, "will they hurt me?"

"I don't know," Finnick confesses with a slight shake of his head. "I think so."

She bites her lip as she contemplates, rubbing her thumb over the top of his hand. "Are they heavy to carry?"

He gulps. "Yes."

She exhales with a quiet strength, blowing strands of her hair away from her face. "Then tell me. We'll carry them together."

And so, with a steely intake of breath, he does. He tells her of the morning his father died and what he'd done to prompt the murder. The state in which he found his mother – an Avox in the Capitol – for trying to defend him. The way he felt, all those nights with all those women, and how it only got worse the more he grew to love her. And her father, Wren Cresta, whom he met more than once but who must have died, for if he had lived, he would not have let them keep Annie in that cell.

When he says his last words, silent tears stream down Annie's cheeks – she's given up wiping them away long ago. She leans against him and buries her head into his shoulder, and he slips an arm around her and watches a particle of dust circulate in the vent for a very long time.

She has questions, of course. About everything, but mostly about her father. If he spoke of her – _yes_, Finnick promises,_ you're all we spoke of_ – and if he was okay – _he looked tired, Annie, but he stood with pride_. And later, as he takes her in his arms and they fall back on the bed, entwined, he assures her that it's not Wren's fault. That he was called upon and couldn't refuse without his family's safety at stake. That every day of his life, he dreamed of the ocean.

"We've lost so many," Annie tells him, dried tears under her shimmering eyes. "Will I know anyone who stands behind us tomorrow?"

"Peeta," Finnick replies. After a moment's thought, he adds, "If he's well enough to attend. Johanna, maybe… I hope."

The sting of their last encounter is sharp, but he still clings to the hope that she'll be there at the ceremony. Though she let go of all she held dear to live an uninterrupted life, there's no doubt she knows how desperately Finnick has tried to hold his loved ones dear. She must know how much it means for him to finally break free and forever bond himself to the one he loves.

Annie sniffles, placing a hand flat on his chest. "I don't think so, Finn. She'll stay away."

"How do you know?"

She burrows further into him, sighing deeply. "I have a secret, too," she murmurs, "though it's not mine."

With a ghost of a frown, he asks, "What is it?"

"They called on her the most. Did the most horrible things to her," Annie begins with a shudder. "I don't know how she could withstand all that torture or what gave her the fight to carry on. Where they kept me, it wasn't so far away… I saw her go in and out, almost every day at first and then less as time went on and she grew weaker. But I always heard her scream."

His arms tighten around Annie and he shuts his eyes, hating the images that find him. It could have been him, it could have been him…

"Sometimes she screamed for her mother," Annie continues, her voice growing fainter. "Sometimes for another girl – maybe a sister, or a close friend. She begged for them to help her, almost like a prayer. But sometimes – on the days they dropped her back off in her cell still conscious – she would lie whichever way they'd thrown her and stare at the walls. She wouldn't be screaming anymore, but her voice would be shaky and incontrollable. And those were the times she would call for you."

It's difficult to imagine Johanna with a mother and sister. It's tough to imagine her smiling, joking, laughing, and enjoying another's company. But nothing compares to the agonizing thought of her whispering his name in the dark.

"It would surprise me to see her tomorrow," Annie remarks. Finnick hugs her tightly, clenching his teeth to suppress a flood of emotion. With her long, tangled hair smothering his senses, Annie continues thoughtfully, "She would be stronger than I ever thought possible…"

* * *

><p>Johanna is not there. She is not present as Annie and Finnick exchange their vows, nor as a net is draped over them as is custom in District 4, nor as a beautifully decorated cake is unveiled at the reception. Finnick looks for her, each time with a disappointed shake of his head, whenever he can bear to tear his eyes from Annie.<p>

Annie – his _wife_ – is a vision. Her chestnut hair has been combed out and lies smoothly and silkily over her shoulders. She's put on a bit of weight since her arrival in District 13, so she does not look so gaunt or emaciated in a vibrant green dress borrowed from Katniss – one that nearly matches the sea green of her twinkling eyes. They've promised each other to put everything aside today – the secrets, the loved ones, the pain. Today is theirs, and as Finnick catches Annie's eyes and she flashes him a wide smile, he knows that she has not strayed from her promise.

It's perhaps a bigger celebration than Coin anticipated, although much less than what Heavensbee fought for. Still, as they join each other on the dance floor in their second-hand clothing in front of the citizens of District 13 and more cameras than Finnick can count, he decides that it doesn't matter. This day, so longingly anticipated, is everything he had not dared to dream of.

Peeta, too, is unable to make an appearance, but Annie is so touched by the cake that she asks to drop by his hospital room before they retire to their new compartment, assigned and approved by Coin.

Hands linked, the newlyweds enter his hospital room after pleading with a pliable nurse, who mutters to herself that everyone these days thinks they can just do what they please and _just because you're the Girl on Fire, doesn't mean you can disturb a hospital wing so late a night_. Finnick wants to ask her what she means, but from the sounds of it, Katniss has paid Peeta a visit, too.

It's late, but Peeta is not sleeping. His eyes are soft, but wary, regarding them hazily as if clouded by weariness.

"Peeta," Annie says warmly, detaching her hand from Finnick's in order to give the boy a proper greeting. Finnick has heard of the way he attacked Katniss when he first saw her, so he tenses and waits closely by as Annie leans down to kiss his cheek. But his worrying is for naught – Peeta simply offers Annie a smile in return.

"The cake was wonderful," she tells him. "We can't thank you enough."

He shrugs, amused. "It's what I do. Congratulations, by the way. I'm sorry I couldn't make it."

Finnick and Annie shake their heads, brushing it off. And when Annie has kissed his forehead and bid him goodnight, Finnick assures her he'll meet her outside in just one more minute.

When it's just him and the boy, he wets his lips and stuffs his hands into his pockets. He can't find the words to say, so he blurts out, "I was just told to save the girl. Katniss. Sometimes I think I know why, but other times… I can't figure out why the rebels took me in the end instead of you."

Peeta doesn't seem surprised by his confession, and reacts by calmly brushing blond hair off of his forehead.

"Johanna said you were like this," he says with a dead chuckle. "Going around apologizing to everyone for things out of your control."

"If you hadn't been taken by the Capitol, you would be in there right now," Finnick says, pointing in the general direction of the Collective, "dancing with Katniss. You know that, right?"

Peeta shakes his head.

Finnick sighs, muttering under his breath for what he's about to say. "And I wish that they hadn't done this to you," he continues, his voice cracking, "because you don't deserve it. _Katniss_ doesn't deserve it. But on the other hand… I'm so glad you were there. So grateful." Peeta frowns, but Finnick goes on before his emotion overwhelms him. "Annie told me the things you said to her. To keep her strong. She told me that no matter what they did to you, you were always a comfort to her. And if you weren't there, she doesn't know if she could have…" He stops, unable to say the last words. With a shaky breath, he finishes, "I swore an oath before I went into the Arena. To protect the Girl on Fire. To get her out alive. I stuck by that oath and still do, to this day. But I want you to know that I'm making my own promise to you. You'll get out alive, Peeta, as long as I have a say in it. I owe you that much."

He nods in conclusion, stepping away from the bed.

Peeta stares at him, his brows furrowed. "Alive…" he trails off uncertainly, "doesn't mean much anymore."

At the door, Finnick looks at the ground to gather himself and then back at Peeta. He assures him with a confidence he didn't know he possessed, "It will."

Outside in the corridor, his hand finds Annie's and they walk together to the compartment they now share.

"How do you feel?" she asks him as they walk.

"Like a victor," he admits. Later, he adds, "The happiest I've ever been, Annie."

She nudges him in the side as they ground to a halt in front of their compartment door. She jokes, "It's Mrs. Odair to you."

A broad, boyish grin takes over his face as his chest puffs involuntarily. He sweeps Annie in his arms to carry her into their compartment, remarking, "Those are the sweetest words I've ever heard."

Annie giggles, locking her arms around his neck as he kicks the door shut behind them. Chuckling to himself, he drops her on the bed – not quite a double, but larger than a twin – and falls lightly on top, pressing kisses to her neck and collarbone. She reaches toward the nightstand to turn on the small lamp, providing some illumination to their new home.

Finnick pauses, glancing at his surroundings. "Not much," he observes. A bed, a nightstand, a small dresser, and some hooks. All bland. White walls, grey carpet.

"We'll make do," Annie assures him, cupping his cheek. With a calm smile, she adds, "I don't need a lot of space or fancy things. You're my favourite accessory."

To this, he laughs. "Well said," he murmurs, nuzzling her ear. "You can do what you want with me."

"Good," she says, abruptly pushing him off and flipping them over. He's locked underneath her legs, straddling his waist, and can't help raising his eyebrows in surprise. Annie laughs delightedly, leaning down to softly kiss his lips. "I feel like I've waited a long time for that to be said."

Finnick gulps, clutching the skirt of her dress in his hands. "A very long time," he agrees, gazing in wonder at the incomprehensible beauty above him. "You've been most patient, my wife."

After a prolonged, heated kiss that has Finnick spinning, Annie declares, "Enough waiting."

They have waited forever and suffered even longer, and as they consummate their marriage with tenderness, passion, and an unspoken desperation, Finnick feels the broken shards of his heart gathering in one place, tight in his chest, threatening to burst. And that is something belonging uniquely to him – and to Annie.

Never again will he touch or be touched by another. Never again will he lie with another or have her tear-stained secrets whispered into his ears. As long as he lives, there will never be another but Annie, with her lovely dark hair and heart that beats in rhythm with his.

* * *

><p>The days following their wedding are shrouded in quiet bliss. Even the white walls and strict schedules of District 13 cannot damper their moods. To Annie and Finnick, everything is, for once, as it should be.<p>

Almost.

She's still nervous around others, and any mention of the traumas they endured in the Capitol or the Arena is met with the blocking of her ears or the shutting of her eyes. She drops out of conversations entirely, only to pop back in with a bout of nervous laughter or fervent nodding of her head.

From their pitying glances and wary stares, Finnick gathers that they all believe her to be mad. All of them – Haymitch, Beetee, Coin, Plutarch, the general citizenry of District 13. Even Katniss. He doesn't try to change their minds – he's past that. Instead, he calls her back when he can, keeps a protective and familiar arm around her, and yearns for the moments when it's just the two of them. The quiet moments where both are sane. Or insane. Finnick doesn't know anymore, but he knows they're there together, and that's enough.

And in those peaceful, safe moments, they lay side-by-side, kiss, make love and, tangled up in each other, chat in the afterglow. They're careful about reminiscing and instead speak of their future. They remind each other of calm ocean waves and salt in the air. They discuss what to grow in a garden – Annie is more practical in her vegetable suggestions, but Finnick argues for a garden bed of flowers – roses, daisies, anything with colour. They speak of their little house in District 4 and how, someday, it may need to be expanded to accommodate their brood. Finnick sees children – three or four, at least – but they are genderless, faceless, simply _there _but unimaginable in their characteristics. He knows that Annie happily dreams of a boy with bronze hair and skin kissed by the sun. On those days, he places a hand flat on her stomach and tries to imagine a swell. A raised bump created by the two of them. Life amongst all this death. Even if he can't picture a face or a day when it may all come true, he gives Annie a gleaming grin that wipes away years of sorrow, kisses her belly and promises himself it's worth fighting for.

And there is still fight left in him. One glance at Annie and he knows it. She toys with his golden bangle at night, asks him what it is for.

"Freedom," he murmurs against her hair.

There is no freedom – not yet. Beetee is right: they're still in the Arena, all of them, and until Snow is dead, they sleep with one eye open.

He will give Annie the ocean again. He will give her open skies and colour. Snow will not take from him the last person he holds dear. Snow will never win again.

So he finds Beetee. Speaks with him of technique, of strategy, of war. And he makes it known that he will fight.

Finnick picks up his golden trident and, with fierce determination, begins to train.

* * *

><p>It surprises everyone, but no one more than Finnick, when Katniss and Johanna become roommates.<p>

They are all in training together, although the girls are far behind him – after months of mental distress that took a physical toll on him, he's weaker than he's ever been, but his strength seems to multiply along with his resolve. Finnick is two classes above Katniss and Johanna, one whose frame is small and who has sustained injuries, the other who remains weak from Capitol torture, fights a morphling addiction and shies away from water. He trains separately from them, but often they spend time together at the end of the day, all three of them catching their breath. Soldiers from District 13 and elsewhere pass them by with cynical glances. Once so strong, these victors.

But they _are_ strong, Finnick continues to tell himself. No one yearns for Snow's destruction more than Katniss, Johanna, and himself. Other soldiers may be savvier in technique or skill, but Finnick and the two girls are more determined. Their blood thirsts for justice. Vengeance for the ones they've loved and lost and security for the future they deserve.

Finnick is not sure what drew Katniss to Johanna or vice versa, but he's happy they have each other. Keeping up with Johanna and her snark is a good distraction for Katniss from thoughts of Peeta, and Katniss is a companion to Johanna, much in the way Finnick used to be. At times, on his own with Johanna, he finds himself tongue-tied. Johanna wears her usual mask of scorn and nonchalance, but still he can't bring himself to ask her the question in fear of hurting her. The question of her feelings for him and if they were—_are_—real.

"You need a good lay," Haymitch tells her one afternoon following a gruelling workout. The three young soldiers are splayed out across several chairs in the Special Defence Unit with Haymitch bringing them up to date on the mission into the Capitol.

Katniss blushes at the comment, and Finnick can't help but snort at Haymitch's crassness and ignorance. He shakes his head and chuckles into his hand.

With a scowl, Johanna grumbles, "I don't think so. 13 is desperate for babies – they don't have pregnancy shots here, and before I knew it, I'd be knocked up by a chump."

Finnick's blank expression is almost instantaneous as his teasing smile is wiped clean. While Haymitch argues against it, Finnick freezes as her words sink in.

"There are no pregnancy shots here?" he asks suddenly, struggling to keep his voice even. Everyone must know what he's thinking – he can see it in their raised brows – but he needs clarification.

"This hole is almost infertile," Johanna says with her usual derision. "If anything, they're hopping up our food with baby-making drugs."

He has the urge to bug out his eyes and run to Annie, but he forces himself to lean back in his seat. "Oh," is all he says, feigning indifference.

Haymitch isn't convinced. "Everything all right?"

Finnick nods, perhaps too eagerly.

"Good," Haymitch says, "because I was just getting to the last detail."

"Lay it on me," Johanna says with a sideways glance in Finnick's direction.

Haymitch sighs. "The mission to the Capitol launches next week."

* * *

><p>Another gulp of cool, stale air fills Finnick's lungs as he zips up his jacket. Next to him, Katniss laces her boots while Boggs speaks in hushed tones to the film crew. All along, they've known what they were training for, but now that the mission is finally here,<em> real<em>, everyone moves in stunned silence.

Finnick, for one, has clarity. Across the Special Defence Unit, he assumes that Gale, with his fierce eyes and rugged stare, has the same – though perhaps a different sort of revelation. As for the others – Boggs, Cressida, the rest of the film crew – they might simply be there because no one else would take their place.

Katniss is one he can't quite figure out. Sometimes he sees anger and steadfastness in her hardened grey eyes, but other times, like when she gave her sister's cat a pat on the head and kissed Prim's forehead, he sees fear and foreboding.

"You sure you want to go?" Finnick asks her through his teeth, lowering his voice so that the others don't hear. If Haymitch, deep in discussion with Beetee by the control panels, caught a whiff of this conversation, he'd cross the room in a flash.

Her eyes flicker in his direction, surprised to hear from him, but she masks the expression moments later. "Yes," she replies, taking care to sound unafraid.

Finnick thinks of that little girl with the blond plaits – Katniss' sister – and the mother she's leaving behind. People who depend on her for their survival.

"You're young," he says gently, as if it's any justification.

Katniss adjusts her sleeves, countering, "So are you."

"I was, once. A long time ago," he says, a deeply entrenched sadness in his voice. Calmly, he adds, "I've been fighting longer than you know. It's all I know how to do."

She pauses, throwing her braid over her shoulder. "Why are you going? You have a wife now."

Finnick nods. "She's the reason. Until I have no one left to fight for, I'll fight. I'm not tired – not yet. Not until I see Snow's last laugh on his lips."

Katniss understands this much. She turns to him, saying quietly but clearly, "I'm going to be the one to kill him, you know."

He smiles sadly, gazing down at the brave girl in front of him. "I know," he says. "For so many years I dreamed it would be me. But I see now. We all do," he adds, gesturing to the others with a subtle nudge of his chin in their direction. "We know what this mission is about."

Katniss' brows narrow inward as she struggles to understand the meaning behind his words. "What?"

"To get you to Snow," Finnick says simply. "Alive. Nothing else matters."

Glancing around the unit, Finnick knows he is right. Nervous, uncertain or determined as hell, everyone knows this must be the end of Snow. Whatever else ends with it, must end.

* * *

><p>Johanna waits outside of Special Defence, sulky and morose, having gotten permission to leave the hospital to see the mission on its way. After another relapse and physical difficulties in training, she's been cut from the mission and isn't happy about it.<p>

"Someone needs to hold down the fort here in 13," Finnick offers to her, finding it easier to be brave with his Capitol voice and charm.

"Don't give me that shit-eating grin," Johanna grumbles, raising her hand as if to slap it off his face. "I deserve to go as much as anyone. You know I do."

He nods, his megawatt smile fading. "Maybe it's for the best," he offers in his normal voice. "One less person for me to look after. With Peeta hopping on board, I've got my hands full."

It's true – the task ahead seems daunting at best. The Capitol is a fully-fledged Hunger Games Arena, alive with pods and spies and death around every corner. Getting Katniss to Snow and getting Peeta out alive as he promised is almost an impossibility.

Johanna frowns, punching him lightly in the arm. "When have you ever had to look after me?"

"Never," he says quite seriously. "And I wouldn't want to have to start. You might bite my head off in the process."

"You'd deserve it," Johanna assures him, muttering under her breath, "you arrogant son-of-a-bitch."

He chuckles. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask her to look after Annie for him, but he can't bring himself to ask it of her. He can't be that cruel.

Instead, he bows his head, plasters another grin on his face, and says, "Always a pleasure, madam."

"Hey," she calls out as he walks away. He looks wistfully over his shoulder. "I'll see you, Odair. And when I do, I'll wipe the floor with you."

He gives her another smile, feeling genuine affection for the griping woman. If only her words could be true.

* * *

><p>Outdoors, it is crisp and fresh, and the biting air catches in Finnick's throat. Still, it's a welcome reprieve from the underground.<p>

Crew members bustle about the hovercraft making last-minute adjustments. Nearby, Haymitch is delivering instructions in low tones to Katniss and Gale, and Peeta stands with Pollux, the Avox, breathing warmth into his hands and glancing at Katniss every so often. In just a few minutes, all of them – with the exception of Haymitch – will be aboard the hoverplane, taking off for what they intend to be the last Capitol mission. To bring Snow to justice.

It's not really justice, Finnick thinks to himself, though he'd never say it aloud to his fellow soldiers. If it were up to him, Snow would live a long, long life of servitude, have his body sold to greedy bidders with warped tastes, be strapped to a bed to have men in white probe at his flesh and stick needles into his veins, have his family and friends ripped away from him one-by-one with violent, torturous deaths, and be sent into a contraption called the Arena, where he would be made to kill or be killed by his peers or by gamemakers from above.

But Finnick's first instincts have always been for retribution. Violence. It's the feral, animalistic part of him; the attitude encouraged by the very Capitol he now moves to destroy.

"Please don't go," says a voice behind him, quiet but bold.

He turns, accepting Annie into his arms and resting his cheek against her hair. "I have to," he murmurs, rubbing her back to keep her warm in the chilly air. "It's our fight."

She nods into his shoulder. Annie knows what he means without explanation – that Mags and Leander and Wren and Roscoe and all the fallen tributes deserve valiant deaths. That they who sacrificed themselves did so not in surrender, but in hopes for a brighter future. One where districts thrive and children do not fear early death awaiting them in glass balls.

"It's our future," he adds, echoing his own thoughts. With a hand in Annie's hair, he pulls away to glance down at her stomach. Her eyes follow his gaze, calm and patient.

She knows of his promises to himself. Of his will to get Katniss and Peeta out alive above all else. As his eyes search hers, Finnick senses she must know, too – it's unspoken between them that he will not return despite his best efforts.

Her sea green eyes glisten with tears, but they do not spill over and she does not make a sound. He blinks away his own tears and brushes her cheek with his thumb.

"Will you go back to 4?" he asks her, soft as a breath.

Her bottom lip quivers. "I'm afraid," she admits. "There might be nothing left."

"It's your home," he says. "_Our_ home."

She says no more, and he pulls her toward him again and rests his forehead against hers. With his eyes closed, he can pretend that the whistling wind is a cool breeze, and the shuffle of blades of grass is rustling fronds. The tide rolls in on the beach and Annie stands beside him, as she always has.

"Do you ever wonder," he speaks after a long silence, "where we'd be, if I'd never been reaped?"

Tears drip from her closed eyelids down her cheeks as she nods. "All the time," she says, thick with sadness and loss.

"I do, too," he confesses, tightening his grip on her. He can't suppress his emotion much longer, so he continues huskily, "It's hard to make out sometimes. Who would still be here, alive. It seems so inviting now, but I never was sure I'd make a good fisherman."

"You were the best at everything you did," Annie remarks, choking back a sob.

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Who would be there, where I'd live, what I'd do… I have a hard time putting all the details into place. But one thing I do know, Annie, is that it would still be you and me. In any life, I'd be with you… or waiting to be with you."

Annie shakes her head, nearly smiling at the absurdity of his claim. "You can't know that."

"Yes, I can," he insists. "I see you in every vision with perfect clarity. You believe that, don't you?"

With a gasp, she nods vigorously. Their lips collide soon after in one last salty, desperate kiss.

He fights for freedom. For himself, for his wife, and for everyone who gave their lives for them. And in the name of freedom, he'll fight until his very last breath.

But it's odd, he thinks as he steps into the hoverplane and takes one last look over his shoulder. It's odd to know that if he dies, he dies not as a free man, but as a man who belongs wholly to someone else. For his heart rendered itself to another years ago. In body and soul, he is forever bound to her.

And he will never ask to be set free.

* * *

><p><strong>Every time I update these days, I do so with an apology for the wait. This time, I took a trip home up north for a few weeks and did not have internet access. The good news is that while I was there, I completed this story. I'll be editing the next bit over the next day or two and should have it to you by the end of the week. So that's good news, right?<strong>

**One note that I did want to mention is that in _Mockingjay,_ there is a scene with Johanna and Katniss at the wedding. In _Knotted_, I imagine that the same scene happened – however, in my mind, Johanna snuck in to see how the reception was going and did not make herself seen by all, least of all Finnick. **

**Thank you again for all of your patience and kind words. I'll see you soon to wrap this one up!**


	23. epilogue

**Epilogue:** _The New Age_

The waves slosh against the sides of the boat, small but sturdy out at sea. Pinks and oranges mesh and whirl in the early evening sky, but her heart is rather grey, like a wilted, dried rose. With a glance to the stern of the boat, she readies herself for the piece that will be taken from her today.

A little girl of no more than four peers over the side of the boat into the depths below.

"It's a far way down, mama," she says, looking over her shoulder for confirmation.

The girl's mother smiles patiently. "Yes, Bellamy," she agrees, "but your uncle's a very good swimmer." Her hand extends across the wooden plank of the boat to meet Annie's, and squeezes it tight.

Annie returns the smile of her sister-in-law, though her chest heaves with sorrow. With the sun beginning to sink in the sky, she carefully crosses the boat to join Fletcher at the bow. In his hands he holds a marble urn.

"He made me promise," Fletcher had told her on the day they were reunited after her return, "that I would take him out to sea. That I would set him free."

Though she wanted nothing more than to keep her beloved close, Annie had nodded her consent, for she had known it then as she knows it now, surer than ever, that this is what Finnick wanted. And he would have entrusted the task to Fletcher, who had survived the attack on the night of the Arena break-in by wrapping his bloodied head in his shirt and crawling back home, and gone on to be involved in a force determined to resist Capitol invasion and purge the district of its chains.

Today, Fletcher's eyes search her with a softness she has seen so often in his brother.

"Together?" he asks, holding the urn to her.

With a steadying breath, she shakes her head. She cannot bear to let him go, though the urn contains only what pieces of him they could find.

He nods in understanding. With his two daughters and pregnant wife standing by, Fletcher removes the lid of the urn and sets it on a plank. Then, when a breeze drifts by, he turns the container upside down.

_They are just ashes_, Annie tells herself, but as they catch in the wind and fly, she hears his laughter, sees his sea green eyes, feels the touch of his lips against her skin. They are him, once and forever. The boat lurches over a wave, and she takes the opportunity to stretch out her fingers to him, to catch a piece in her hand. It floats to a perfect landing and she closes her fingers overtop, cradling the one morsel that she will selfishly keep.

The weightlessness she feels at his release is unexpected.

Fletcher steers them back to shore, his gaze hardened again, but thoughtful. Annie takes a seat close to Kessie, who cradles her youngest daughter's head against her shoulder.

"How far along?" she asks conspiratorially, allowing her hand to gently brush Annie's stomach.

Annie can't help but look down in surprise – she thought her loose clothing concealed the swell.

"Just a few months," Annie replies, short of words, and Kessie smiles brightly.

"I'll let you tell Fletcher on your own time," she promises. "But these two—" she points to Annie's stomach and then to her own, "—might get into some mischief together. Cousins."

Annie can only nod, unable to mask a timid smile. She had returned to District 4 expecting ruin, loneliness, and heartbreaking memories. Instead, she had found something there. Family. Survival in the unlikeliest of places, amidst the destruction and death.

And as Fletcher steers the boat into the harbour, she finds something else in the wind swirling around her. Sure as the sun, she feels his presence in the salty air, as though Finnick has finally come home.

"I didn't love him," Johanna had said to her before they parted ways in 13, "but I wouldn't blame anyone who did."

Annie had loved him, and loves him still, for to her, he is here somewhere, lurking behind a fishmonger's stall or on the field playing Kick-The-Ball. He is in the wind, in the sea, in their home on the beach. He is in everything she sees in this district, their home.

Taking her hand, Fletcher guides her out of the boat.

"I'll walk you back home," he offers, glancing over his shoulder at the curious eyes that watch them on the shore. People who have heard only stories and rumours about the mad, mad girl who lived. The one who blocks her ears during confrontations, who squeezes shut her eyes at violence, who screams when it all becomes too much.

"That's all right," Annie assures him with a sudden burst of confidence. "I'll be fine on my own."

Even Fletcher is sceptical, though she knows he hates those watchful eyes. He prefers a quiet life, yet his similarities to the fallen Golden Boy are not unnoticed in the district. Moreover, his fraternization with his late brother's wife draws questions and assumptions.

"All right," he agrees gruffly. "I'll call on you tomorrow."

She nods, leaving him to tie up the boat while she bids good evening to Kessie and the two young girls with strawberry blonde curls.

"Annie?" Fletcher asks from behind her. She whirls around. With a torn expression, he asks in a small voice, "What we did – it was right?"

It's custom in District 4 to bury your dead. To reunite them with the earth so that they may always have a place within it.

Finnick was never quite convinced by that. He had his own views of death, burials, and the afterlife. He had seen too much hell on earth to want to remain a part of it.

"It was right by him," Annie says, and with another warm breeze tickling her neck, she knows it's true.

Her little house by the sea seems much bigger now that Finnick isn't there to fill it with warmth and love and laughter, but Annie knows she will never leave it. It was built to hold her and their family in its arms and to look over the sea that now carries her love.

When she arrives, the sun is quite low in the sky, close to dipping beneath the horizon. With her last few minutes of daylight, she gets on her hands and knees in front of the garden bed. She digs a hole near flowers – daisies, as he had suggested – and slowly unfurls her fist, clutched tightly with the speck of him that flew into her hand. She drops it into the soil and buries it.

Just as he was in life, there are parts of him that will be chained to the Capitol forever in death. There are parts that will fly over the sea, that will swim in the depths, and that will float on freely. And there is one part – just one – that will live as he lived, next to Annie in a little house by the sea.

She stands, making her way to the sand and down to the water, where she washes her hands. Then, with the tide rushing to her ankles, she shuts her eyes in the setting sun and feels the wind move all around her.

They say she is scared, but she looks ahead with determined eyes and a brave heart. They say she's weak, but only the ones who have lost everything understand what it is to be strong.

They say she's mad.

Only one will ever know the truth. She's not mad – she's madly in love with a ghost. A ghost with sea green eyes and tousled bronze hair. His smile, for so many years crooked and superficial, is finally the genuine, wide smile of a victor. His knees are scraped and his hands are crusty with dirt and blood, but he stands tall. He walks beside her every day of her life, watching over her and the son she carries in her belly. He waits patiently, as he always has, for the moment that they meet again to walk hand-in-hand to someplace that's just like a dream.

* * *

><p>the end.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>In my head (and in my heart!), Kessie is pregnant with a son, just as Annie is, and they'll grow up together almost as brothers, with Fletcher teaching them to fish and to commandeer the seas – just like Leander did for Fletcher and Finnick. It was important to me that Annie went back to District 4, as it IS her home, and I think she will stay there forever, where she can always feel Finnick's shadow watching over her. <strong>

**I know a lot of you pleaded with me not to "kill" Finnick. When it came down to it, I wanted this tale to be true to the book, and though I diverged on a few points, I accomplished what I set out to do. And so did Finnick, I think. With his loyalty, his strength and his determination, he helped to bring about an end to the Games, to rally up support for a rebellion in the districts, to invade the Capitol and kill Snow while getting Peeta and Katniss out alive. Most importantly, he was set free and married the love of his life. I think he knew all of that when he set out on his mission and I think he died knowing that it was time. That he had fought for long enough. He was a tortured soul and just as mad as Annie, in ways, and had he lived, he would have lived a haunted man. In the end, I think he found solace in death, and I think he accepted Annie's vision of it – that it's not nothingness, but a place softer than Earth, where the chains shackled to your ankles are released and you're free to float on in peace. **

**You may disagree - and I know many of you will! - and that's fine with me. However, I do hope you enjoyed my take on Finnick's tale. It was a challenge, but a pleasure to write, and I thank you all for your time, patience, and kind words! **

**All the best. **


End file.
